


Anything but Temptation

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little nappy/diaper play, Anal Sex, Angst, Desperation, Eventual Johnlock, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Omorashi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public peeing, References to incestious feelings/sibling incest, Squicky sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It began at the beginning, with a dead taxi driver and a Chinese meal in a Soho restaurant. </p><p>With John drinking too much and unknowingly hitting Sherlock's kink button, but that was only the start... the start of a romance and of the renegotiation of personal and sexual boundaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a WIP and at the moment I've no idea how much will be piss porn (or any other kind of porn) and how much characterisation and plot, although I'm aiming for a combination of all these elements.
> 
> Tags etc will be updated as I go along. I hope you enjoy reading it, comments are welcome.
> 
> Not beta read, so please excuse any mistakes.
> 
> For entertainment purposes only, no copyright infringement intended. (I'll put them back when I've finished playing with them, but they may be a bit damp!)

It began at the beginning, with a dead taxi driver and a Chinese meal in a Soho restaurant. 

“We are going to be so good together,” said John. 

If Sherlock hadn’t already realised that John was half-cut that remark would have convinced him. Ever since their ‘misunderstanding’ at Angelo’s John had been careful to avoid saying anything that might be misconstrued. Only now he grinned and set his beer glass down on the table with exaggerated care. His sister was an alcoholic so there was probably a genetic predisposition to alcohol. She was a lesbian as well and there were those who claimed that was also genetic.  Time would tell, but whatever his sexuality John Watson had turned out to be an unexpectedly intriguing choice of flatmate.

Sherlock had liked him from the first, which made him almost unique since he did not make friends easily or indeed at all. Then John had killed a man, without hesitation and with a steady hand. He had nerves of steel and there hadn’t been any evidence of guilt or remorse afterwards. That had surprised Sherlock and instantly made John even more fascinating.

“Drowning your sorrows?” asked Sherlock.

“What sorrows?” It wasn’t bravado. John’s conscience wasn’t bothering him at all. “Do you want another drink?”

“No, thank you.” Sherlock hadn’t touched either of the last two glasses of wine. He liked to keep a clear head. Okay, that wasn’t quite true, not always, but he had never been a drinker. 

“It’s past my bedtime anyway.” John pulled his jacket off the back of the chair. “Do we just split the bill or arse about working out which of us had what?”

“Split,” said Sherlock firmly.

It had started to rain when they stepped out into the busy street. A faint drizzle danced in the lamplight and people hurried past with their collars turned up.  

John swayed slightly. “Which way’s home?”

Sherlock knew every street in London. “Left, second right, right again, another right, left and right into Baker Street.”

“I’ll just follow you, shall I?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “You better had if you don’t want to sleep on a park bench tonight.” 

“I could find my own way, eventually,” John insisted. He patted his jacket pocket. “Mrs Hudson gave me a key. I live there.”  John thought for a moment. “I’m pissed, aren’t I?”

“You’re more than a little worse for wear,” replied Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye. The word fun wasn’t normally in his vocabulary, but an intoxicated John came pretty close to providing all the entertainment he needed. 

“Pissed,” announced John as if it were an achievement. He fell into step with Sherlock and they made their way through the crowd.  “I could do with a piss.”

“Hardly surprising, considering the amount you drank,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “We’ll be home in a quarter of an hour. I assume that you can wait until then?”

“Maybe, but I might just nip down an alley,” said John. “Who’s this Moriarty bloke then?”

“I told you I’ve absolutely no idea, but I intend to find out.” Sherlock took a quick sideways look at John.  There was nothing obvious to the casual observer, but the subtle clues in his body language told Sherlock that he really did need to urinate. “I’m afraid that there aren’t that many dark alleys on route.”

“There must be one somewhere.”

Two actually, if one was being precise, but Sherlock was certain that John had already forgotten the route home and they could easily be avoided. Something nagged at Sherlock that might just have been a guilty conscience; John had saved his life after all.  Yet it would be an interesting experiment and he could always resist anything but temptation.

“None at all I’m afraid,” said Sherlock and he took a left turn where he ought to have gone right.

Left was a loop that added a good ten minutes to their journey home. Those extra minutes were very good for Sherlock, but not nearly as good for John who seemed to be getting more uncomfortable by the second.

“Is it much further?” he asked when they entered yet another long street of restaurants and shops.  

“Only another ten minutes or so.”

“Hang on.” John grabbed Sherlock’s forearm. “You said fifteen minutes when we left the Chinese and we’ve been walking for longer than that already.”

Chalk one up to John for not being too drunk or too stupid to notice the discrepancy. “I didn’t allow for the fact that you don’t walk nearly as quickly as I do.”

“It still shouldn’t be ten minutes. I’m not a bloody snail.” 

“Perhaps five.” Sherlock gave John his most charming smile.

John huffed his breath out in a cloud of night air and Sherlock saw his thigh muscles tense.   “Make your mind up, will you? I’m dying for a piss.”

Sherlock shrugged elegantly. “More like ten I’m afraid.”

John’s teeth sagged on his lower lip. “In that case I’m going to have to piss somewhere, that wall should do.”

Sherlock saw the shadowy alcove across the road and he caught John’s arm before he could make a beeline for it. “Not there, not unless you want the whole thing captured on CCTV.”  

“Bugger!” John shifted restlessly from one foot to another.

Sherlock, who had no idea whether there was a camera or not, plastered on his most sympathetic expression.   “Maybe we could find a secluded spot further down." 

 “We’d better find somewhere soon or I’m going to piss myself.”  John shoved his hands in his pockets and hurried off down the road. 

Sherlock watched John for a moment before he fell into step beside him. John’s sudden decision to go in the street had both surprised and disappointed Sherlock. He hadn’t expected such a quick and easy capitulation. Still it made sense in a way, medically trained, army doctor. There wasn’t much privacy in the military by all accounts and John didn’t seem to be the least bit embarrassed by his predicament. 

John stopped outside a locked-up jeweller’s shop with an old fashioned porch. “Will this do?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether it was pity or curiosity, though the latter fit his image better, but he nodded. “You’re out of range of the camera.”

“Thank Christ for that.” John was already unzipping his jeans as he stepped into the shop entrance. “I’m bloody bursting.”

Since he didn’t ask Sherlock to look away he didn’t feel obliged to do so. He curled one arm around the railing and leant his chin on his fist. Not that there was much to see, just John’s shadowy profile and a brief glimpse of his pale cock when he pulled it out. It disappeared behind John’s hand and a moment later he gave a little sigh. Sherlock closed his eyes for an instant to savour the hiss of urine, but they flew open when he heard footsteps on the pavement.

It was a young couple with their arms around one another, giggling and kissing as they approached with her heels sparking on the flagstones.

“Oh fuck,” John muttered. He shuffled closer to the wall in an attempt to hide what he was doing.

So there were limits to John’s unembarrassed matter-of-a-fact attitude then, but he was either unable or unwilling to stop when the couple walked right past them.  Sherlock saw them glance at him and then at John. The girl looked down at the puddle on the step and quickly away again with a spot of colour in her cheeks.

“Did you see that bloke pissing in the doorway?”  the man’s voice floated back to them.

John turned around. He slumped against the wall and closed his zip. “They would have to come past then, wouldn’t they?”

“They were making enough noise to wake the dead. I would have thought that you had plenty of time to stop and zip up,” said Sherlock innocently.

“I couldn’t, could I? Not once I got started.” John looked a bit sheepish. “You try stopping mid-stream when you’re absolutely dying to go.”

Sherlock had frequently done just that with varying degrees of success, but he thought better of saying so. Confession might be good for the soul, but life without John Watson would be very dull indeed and he didn’t want to scare him off.

“Point taken,” said Sherlock. “Let’s get home shall we?”

He took them by the most direct route and he was turning the key in the front door of 221B less than five minutes later.

“I’ve have tried to hang on if I’d realised we were this close to home,” grumbled John.

Sherlock filed that piece of information away for further reference. “I did say that it wouldn’t take us long to get here.”

“Yeah, I suppose you did, but five minutes seems like forever when you’re nearly pissing yourself.” John grinned. “It’s been quite an evening hasn’t it? Now I just need to catch up on my sleep. Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched John climb the second flight of stairs to his room before he took his coat off. Then he reached down and gave his groin a much needed squeeze. What had just happened wasn’t sexual for John in the way that it was for him. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t fantasize about it though. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time it's Sherlock who needs to go and it isn't by accident either, but that doesn't mean that he wants John to find out about his kink.

To go or not to go, that was the question. Not, Sherlock decided. He could hold it for a while, although he couldn’t risk waiting too long.  Not in the Scotland Yard archive with the cold case files spread out all around them.  Sherlock squeezed his crossed legs together under the desk. He had  already started to get fidgety and John might notice if he got much worse. John wasn’t a fool, but he did have a hangover and that gave Sherlock a certain advantage.

John pushed aside the faded folder he had been staring at. “I wish you’d tell me what it is that we’re looking for.”

“You’ll know it when you see it, just trust your instincts.”

“I’d rather trust a couple of aspirins and nice lie down.” John rubbed his temples. “It feels as if the top of my head’s coming off.”

Sherlock looked at John’s head, at the way his hair had strayed onto his forehead. “It’s still intact.”

“Thanks. Er, Sherlock, did I have a piss in a doorway last night?”

“You did,” said Sherlock. He pretended to study the file in front of him.

“And some people came past?”

“They did.”

“Oh fuck.”

Sherlock grinned. “That’s what you said last night.”

“It’s not bloody funny.” John blinked and rubbed his eyes. “God, I must have had a skinful.”

“Three pints of Boddingtons’ finest and a glass of white wine.”

“Is that all? Still it’s more than I’ve had in a long time and I’m not supposed to drink with the drugs for the PSTD.”

So John was a doctor who didn’t obey doctor’s orders, a rule-breaker and risk-taker like himself. Sherlock liked the man more and more. Not too much he cautioned himself, John had already told him that he was straight and last night had proved that he wasn’t into piss, so no chance there then. Regret soured Sherlock’s mood and his hand twitched ready to shove a stack of files onto the floor.

“They all had blue or black bikes,” said John.

“What?”

“All these kids who disappeared, Claire Martin in 1989, blue bike. Helen Davies in ’92, blue again. Reena Patel in 1995, black, as did little Suzy Granger in 1999. Blue for Shona Craven in 2003 and black for Wanda Jamieson last year.”

Sherlock sat back with his hands in his pockets. “What does that prove?”

“You tell me, you’re the genius detective, but it’s a pattern, isn’t it?”

It was enough of a pattern for them to spread the files out on the floor to search for more similarities. Sherlock ignored the twinge in his bladder as he stretched out on the concrete. That could wait.  They shared the seven files between them and started work. It was a long and time-consuming process and every so often Sherlock’s bladder reminded him that it really would like to be emptied. When he ignored it and went on studying the files its demands grew more insistent.

Sherlock pressed his thighs together discreetly and tried to find a more comfortable position. The need to go had become more of an irritation than a pleasure now that he was captivated by the mystery before him. He simply didn’t want to spare the time to go to the loo.

“I’m not finding anything, are you?” asked John.

“Just keep looking,” growled Sherlock. If he could carry on this state so could John.

“I wouldn’t mind a coffee either or some lunch.” John went on working despite his complaint.

“Go and get a sandwich then.” With John out of the way he’d at least be able to hold himself for a few minutes. He had finished more investigations and experiments than he could count with his left hand wedged between his legs. Not with anyone else around though, it seemed that sharing his life and his flat with John would be more problematic than he thought.

“No, I’ll hold on for a bit,” said John.

And he was going to have to do the same, unless of course he broke off his research and went to the loo down the corridor. Later perhaps, when he got desperate, well, more desperate than he already was.

Half an hour later Sherlock was finding it ever more difficult to keep still and focus on the evidence. It was no use he was going to have to give in before his desperation became apparent to John. And he couldn’t think straight either, his head was full of urinals and waterfalls, and John pissing in a doorway.

“I’m going to get that coffee,” announced John. “Do you fancy a break?”

“No, bring me one back.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock forced himself to wait until John’s footsteps retreated down the corridor before he grabbed himself through his trousers. The rubbing, squeezing motion helped, but he still couldn’t concentrate. Emergency measures then before John came back. Of course he could have walked to the loo in the time it would take him to suss out a solution to his dilemma, but where was the challenge in that?

Going on the floor was out of the question, John would soon notice a large puddle of smelly piss. Sherlock staggered to his feet, still holding himself securely. Where then? The room was vast and cavernous. Could he get away with one of the old filing cabinets at the far end? Maybe if he didn’t mind soaking a load of historic documents, but it wasn’t a foolproof solution and John wasn’t a fool. There weren’t any drains he could crouch over either.

Oh god, there had to be somewhere he could go. Think, Sherlock, think.

Cleaning cupboard, in an alcove on the left. Now there was an idea. Sherlock forced himself to stand upright and hurried towards it.  A wave of urgency hit him and he yanked his belt open and shoved his hand inside his trousers. Just don’t come back now, John.

The first thing Sherlock saw when he flicked on the light was a red plastic bucket and his bladder pulsed hopefully. No, there was nowhere to empty it and he wasn’t about to leave it standing around to be discovered by the cleaner. However, there were some two litre bottles of cleaning fluid and bleach in the corner. Not that he wanted bleach on his cock, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Sherlock fumbled through the bottles, dancing from one foot to another, until he found one that was almost empty. He wrenched the top off and grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the shelf. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Once he’d lined the neck of the bleach bottle with a few napkins Sherlock pushed the tip of his cock into the opening and let go with a long shudder of relief.

Pissing felt wonderful and he wouldn’t have minded a wank afterwards, but there was no time for that. He topped the bottle up with bleach and pushed it to the back of the stack. Now for those damn files.  With a smirk on his face he strolled out into the archive room and walked slap bang into John.

“What the hell have you been up to?” demanded John. He frowned. “It sounded as if you were pissing in there.”

Sherlock knew that any denial would only make things worse. Repeat after me, John isn’t an idiot. He tried to look embarrassed, which wasn’t actually that difficult. “I got caught short and I…well…I had to go in a bottle.”

“What was wrong with the gents down the hall?” asked John.

“Nothing, I just left it a bit late that’s all. I didn’t realise how much I needed to go until after you went for the coffee.” Sherlock gave him what he hoped was an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

John wasn’t buying it, not quite. There was a line of puzzlement between his brows. “Okay, whatever, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

They settled back in among the files, but Sherlock was acutely aware of John’s suspicions. So he was going to have to lay off the piss play while John was around. Once this slid to the back of John’s memory, to be dismissed as a one-off incident if it was thought of at all, everything would be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's just a little John/OFC at the start of this chapter, but only so Sherlock can catch them at it.

The first thing Sherlock saw when he walked into their flat was John’s white bottom going up and down. He barely had time to register the sheen of sweat on John’s skin and the buffeting heat from the open fire. A split second later a woman’s shriek of alarm split his eardrums. Tanned hands with lurid blue fingernails pushed frantically at John’s shoulders and he pulled away from his partner with a curse.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded furiously.

“We live together, remember?” Sherlock peeled his black gloves off. The naked woman shrunk back behind John when he fixed her with an icy stare. He waved his hand at the flames leaping in the grate. “Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?”

“Sod off,” said John. He took a deep breath, obviously trying to control his temper. “Just go into your room and give us a bit of privacy, will you?”

Sherlock would rather have stayed. A nude, angry and aroused John was just too delightful, but that irritating woman who clung to him was a damn nuisance.  “Perhaps you should ask your friend to leave instead or do you intend to carry on screwing her?”

“Will you just fuck off?” yelled John.

Sherlock resisted the suicidal urge to tell him that he was beautiful when he was angry.  “And allow you to do the same? Yes, of course.”  He gave the woman his most charming smile. “I’d be grateful if you don't make too much noise when you orgasm. I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

“If you don’t shut up and bugger off…” John clenched his fists on his thighs. “Out. Sherlock. Now.”

Sherlock went. He leant on his closed bedroom door and stifled his laugher with his hand. He certainly hadn’t expected to arrive home to this, but from the sound of the argument going on in the other room the grand romance was quite definitely over.

“He said you live together…”  

“Sherlock didn’t mean it like that.”  John attempted to smooth things over with his lady love. “We’re flatmates, that’s all and he wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

The woman said something, squeaky and tear-filled, that Sherlock couldn’t quite catch.

“No, I’m not gay, you know that I’m not…”

John’s denials didn’t stop his girlfriend from slamming out of the flat.  And good riddance as far as Sherlock was concerned. Still he supposed that he should be grateful to her for that view of John’s bouncing bottom and hard cock. Sherlock replayed the scene in his mind. The shock interruption hadn’t made John lose his erection, but from the way he was thrusting he must have been very close to the point of no return.  Poor John. He had gone to all the trouble of picking up that woman, bringing her home and fucking her, only to be denied at the eleventh hour.

Sherlock liked that idea. He liked it an awful lot. Enough for his hand to stray down to his groin. The only thing that would have been better was coming home to find John about to piss on the carpet.  Sherlock let his imagination dwell on that scenario and he pressed his lips together so that he wouldn’t make a noise.

“Sherlock, get our here. I want a word with you.” John still sounded livid.

John had unfortunately, but not surprisingly, put his clothes on, although his shirt buttons were askew. “What the blazes do you think you’re playing at, Sherlock?”

“The case finished sooner than I anticipated, so I came home a day early.”  Actually it had only taken him a day to solve the Edinburgh bank fraud.  The second night in the hotel had been purely ‘recreational’.  An extended hold-it session had finished with piss gushing through his fingers while he knelt in the bathtub. Sherlock put on his most injured expression. “How was I to know that you were going to have company?”

“Okay, so you didn’t know I was going to bring a girl home tonight. That doesn’t excuse all those snide remarks or you just standing there looking at us. Christ, Sherlock, haven’t you got any social skills at all?”

Sherlock had been accused before of not understanding the rules of the game, but perhaps his was a different game. Yet it stung somewhere deep inside him. “A bit not good?”

“A lot not good.” John grinned ruefully. “God, Sherlock, what the hell am I meant to do with you?”

Sherlock could think of a dozen things, but he hadn’t expected to be forgiven so abruptly. Even John looked a bit surprised. “I ought to bloody well murder you,” he said. “Do you know how much money I spent on drinks and a meal?  Then I had to mess about lighting that poxy fire because she thought it was romantic.”

“It’s like an oven in here.” Sherlock crossed the room and pushed up one of the sash windows. “I hope that you haven’t burnt anything important.”

“The way my love life’s going it won’t make any bloody difference if I had.”  John sat down heavily in his favourite armchair. “Talk about bad timing, couldn’t you have come in five minutes later?”

Lust spiked through Sherlock. “It might have been more embarrassing if I had.”

“Yeah, there’s that about it, but at least I wouldn’t have a serious case of blue balls.” John winced. “Forget I said that.”

“It’s forgotten,” said Sherlock although it never would be. He could solve John’s problem easily enough with his hands or his mouth. He might even offer to take that woman’s place on the hearthrug. Only John would either run a mile or flare up again if he even hinted at it. “Do you want a coffee?”

“Not the way you make it.” John stood up and Sherlock saw a purple love-bite where his shirt collar fell open. “I’m going to call it a night.” They both knew he was going up to his room to wank off. John’s gaze skittered away from Sherlock’s. “Just don’t make any smart arse remarks, okay?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Have fun.”

“It’s the only bloody fun I am going to get tonight, thanks to you.” John moved towards the door. “Unless the house is on fire I don’t want to know, murders, alien abductions and someone robbing the Bank of England can all wait until I’ve…until tomorrow, understand?”

“Understood.”

Sherlock felt suddenly bereft when John closed the door. He listened to his footsteps on the stairs and the click as John’s bedroom door closed. If he followed him up there now John would reject him and that would lead to untold complications.  So he would content himself with joining him metaphorically, in a mutual wanking session.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to strip off and stretch out on his bed. His fingers whispered over his cock and he imagined John doing the same thing, to himself and to Sherlock.  John knelt on the carpet. His erection throbbed. Frustrated. Denied.  John couldn’t wait to piss and he had to go in the street with people walking past.  Sherlock let the fantasies claim him.  He spread his legs and pulled rapidly on his cock. It was too much. He was going to have to let himself come.  John was probably coming right now, moaning through gritted teeth as he climaxed.  And he couldn’t hold back either…Oh god, fuck, John!

*

“We could share…” said John abruptly.

The environment gave his unfinished statement meaning. It was Friday night and the pub was packed out. Up at the bar a group of women in bright pink ‘Stacy’s hens’ t-shirts jostled one another and shrieked with laugher.  Nevertheless Sherlock needed to be certain of his proposal. “Share what exactly?”

“Don’t be dense, a girl, one of them if you like. We chat her up and take her home, and share her…” From the tongue-tied manner in which he made his offer and the way he sat hunched over his beer glass this wasn’t John’s usual modus operandi.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s either, but the thought of seeing John fucked out of his head almost made him agree. He’d regret that impulse later though when the stupid woman was all over him and he was expected to perform.  “As I told you once before girls aren’t really my area. Observation is though and I’d be quite happy to watch while you-“

“Make a complete prat of myself?” said John. “You sitting there with that superior look on your face while I get off wasn’t what I had in mind.”

 He had Sherlock’s undivided attention. “What exactly did you have in mind then?”

“Nothing. It was a stupid idea, just forget that I ever mentioned it, all right?”

Sherlock picked up his glass and took a sip, but this time he didn’t make any promises he wasn’t going to keep.  He hadn’t played his piss games for weeks in case John caught him out and then caught on.  Only now the rules of the game had changed and it was John who had moved the goalposts. That clumsy offer had been the nearest John could get to asking Sherlock for sex, without, well, asking him for sex.  The girl would have just been a sop to John’s heterosexuality and although Sherlock had turned his suggestion down he was still here with him, not off chasing some woman.  

Sherlock decided that it was time to start pushing the boundaries.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every 7 to 10 days from now on, but I do intend to finish this story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tests the limits of John's tolerance with some desperation games...

A fortnight later an unseasonally cold and damp Thursday evening presented the ideal opportunity.  They had no reason to brave the weather, so they settled down to vegetate in front of the telly.  John put an old DVD on and he was soon lost in the D-Day landings. Sherlock quickly grew bored with it, but he bided his time and only started to fidget about half an hour before the end of the film.

After a couple of minutes John dragged his eyes away from the screen. “What’s the matter with you? Got ants in your pants?”

“I need a piss,” said Sherlock truthfully. He had wanted to go before the film even started.

“And I suppose you want me to pause this? Just when it’s getting to the good part….” John began to hunt for the DVD control down the side of his armchair. “Have you seen the remote anywhere?”

Sherlock pointed at the floor. “It’s under your chair, but don’t bother to stop it, I can hang on until the film’s over.”

 “Are you sure?”  

“Quite sure,” said Sherlock.

John looked at him for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”  He turned back to the television. “I remember this bit.”

Sherlock realised that he would probably have to wet himself to divert John’s attention away from World War II in glorious Technicolor.  Only that was a game for another day, way off in the future.  He sat quietly until about five minutes before the end of the film. Then he began to bounce about on the sofa with a pained expression on his face.

“Tie a knot in it, Sherlock,” said John. “I’m not stopping this now.”

“I’m not asking you to, am I?” Sherlock hoped that he sounded suitably tetchy. He pressed his thighs together. “I can wait.”

“Good. So shut up and let me watch the end of this, will you?”

It wasn’t exactly a declaration of undying love and John hadn’t tried to ravish him on the carpet, but he had taken Sherlock’s desperation in his stride, which was definitely a bit very good.  Sherlock thought that he had better not push his luck though and he got up to go to the loo while the closing credits were still onscreen.

John grinned. “Don’t make a puddle on the floor on the way there.”

“I won’t,” said Sherlock as if he were affronted by the very idea. He even managed to keep the Cheshire cat grin off his face until he got into the hallway. Then he went to have a very happy piss, life was definitely looking up.

Sherlock repeated the experiment several times over the next few weeks. He would tell John that he needed to go halfway through a meal at Angelo’s and then insist that he could wait until they had finished eating.   Or he would mention it just as they got into a taxi. When John demanded to know why he hadn’t said so before Sherlock would assure him that he could hold it.  Once there was a loo available he would use it like a good little boy because he didn’t want to push John too far, too soon.  Only patience wasn’t his strong point and Sherlock soon started to chaff against the restrictions he had placed on himself. 

So he decided to take the plunge and up the game a notch.

*

Sherlock completed three-quarters of the data analysis. Then he drank another glass of water and waited until he heard John open the front door.  He grinned and sat down at the desk. The game was on. He didn’t even look up when John came in and he barely acknowledged his greeting.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” asked John.

“No…I’d better not.” Sherlock jiggled his feet about to ensure that John got the message.

John sighed. “You want to go again, don’t you?”

“Yes,” admitted Sherlock. There was a very real ache in his abdomen and he crossed his legs. “But I just need another fifteen minutes to wrap this up or the data will be ruined.”

“Let’s hope the carpet’s not.” 

John went into the kitchen and Sherlock heard him moving around in there. He wished that John would hurry up, open cupboard, close cupboard and then he poured water onto into a mug. That sent a quick jolt of urgency through Sherlock. He breathed in sharply and then exhaled slowly.  A slight change of position helped, but he was wriggling around in his chair when John came back with his tea.

“I wish you’d just go to the toilet like any normal person,” said John.

“I’ll go when I’ve finished this.”

John sat on the sofa. “I could give you ten excellent reasons why you should go now, but I’d be wasting my breath, wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll go in a minute,” snapped Sherlock.  He squeezed his crossed legs together. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Okay, so it’s not.” John glared at him. “Except that I have to put up with you jiggling about all the time, it’s irritating and embarrassing and – Sherlock!”

Sherlock had opened his legs and shoved his hand into his groin.The action had been an instinctive response to a sudden stab of need and he felt awkward for a moment, but he was damned if was going to back down now. “You can leave if you don’t like it, but I’m not going anywhere to do anything before I’ve sorted this out.”

“You can’t just sit there holding yourself like a demented four-year old,” said John incredulously.

“Yes, I can.” Sherlock jabbed viciously at the keyboard.  There actually might be a pattern forming out of this assortment of random variables if only he could grasp it. That was the down side of desperation. It made it impossible to think about anything other than pissing. And sex of course, it definitely made him think about sex. He was piss hard already and he gave his cock a discreet rub through his trousers.

“For fuck’s sake!”  John strode across to the desk. “The world isn’t going to implode if you stop work long enough to have a piss. Go to the toilet, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pushed his chair back. “No,” he said softly.

That was the moment, split into a shards of time, when everything changed.  John’s gaze went for an instant to Sherlock’s hand, wedged firmly between his thighs.  Colour infused John’s face and his eyes flicked. Then, when he might have turned away, he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, entrapped by whatever he saw there.

“Can you manage if I help you?”  John licked his dry lips. “With the data I mean…”

 “Yes, I used to do this all the time before you moved in.” Sherlock gave himself a squeeze. “I might get a bit more embarrassing and irritating, but I should be able to hold it for another few minutes.”

“Okay, fine, let’s get on with it then. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go to the loo.”

John stood behind Sherlock, just a hand’s span from the back of his chair. Sherlock wanted to close his eyes and lean back into John’s solid strength. He pressed the mouse pad with his free hand. “We need to look at this first.”

“All right.” 

John moved a fraction closer so that he could see the screen over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock got a whiff of his aftershave. It was nothing special, nothing expensive, but he like the way it smelt on John.  His cock jerked and he hunched forward, riding out another spasm of urgency.

“I don’t want you to wet yourself.” There was a warning note in John’s voice.

Sherlock knew that if he tackled him about it now John would deny that moment of fusion had ever taken place. John needed to maintain the pretence that all this was perfectly normal and he wouldn’t be able to do that if Sherlock pissed himself right in front of him. Sherlock understood, if he pushed too hard everything would crack asunder.

It took them another twenty minutes to reach a conclusion and Sherlock only just made it to the toilet in time. He had to fight desperately to hold on while he unzipped his trousers, but it felt good to go and even better afterwards. Sherlock rested his back on the bathroom wall and started to fondle his cock. The poor thing wanted to come, but he wasn’t going to let it, not now, not yet.

“Wait,” he whispered and he tucked his erection back into his trousers.

John had made tea and put the telly on when by the time he got back to the living room. There were a stack of takeaway menus on the coffee table.  “I thought we could phone for a pizza or an Indian,” said John.

Sherlock wasn’t really hungry for food. “You choose, but I’m not in the mood for Indian.”

“You wouldn’t be, I quite fancy a curry.” John cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, how about Chinese?”

They bickered about the food for a while before they finally reached a compromise.  Chinese and Indian, eaten sprawled on the sofa with their feet on the coffee table. John put the football on the telly and sunk down into the cushions. “There’s something to be said for a lad’s night in and no washing up.” He patted Sherlock on the back. “Perhaps we should get a few beers in next time.”

Sherlock turned his head so that he looked directly into John’s face. “No, not beer.”

John flushed, but he met Sherlock’s gaze square on. “Water then.”

They smiled at one another in prefect, unspoken understanding.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The games continue, but there's a crisis ahead for John...

They established a pattern, a routine that fit in around their investigations and John’s occasional forays into heterosexuality. Sherlock saw no reason to analyse what went on between them and if John wanted to talk about it he could discuss it with his therapist. Although he was certain that John kept it all locked away in a little mind-box labelled ‘Secret, only to be opened by Sherlock Holmes’ and that suited him perfectly.

Sherlock no longer bothered to invent a reason for his desperation. He would simply tell John that he was holding his piss. Then John would frown and roll his eyes, and pretend to watch telly or read while Sherlock tried to control himself.  Eventually John would abandon the charade and just watch him. Sometimes he was sarcastic, but he was more often funny and supportive. Only he always insisted that Sherlock had to piss in the toilet at the end of every session. The kitchen sink was forbidden on grounds of hygiene and there would be a blazing row if he ever went in the living room.

“The flat will reek of it and how will you explain that to your clients?” demanded John.

“I never explain anything to anyone.” 

“Try telling that to Mrs Hudson when she wants to know why there’s a big piss stain on the carpet.”

Sherlock knew that an accident was inevitable. One day he simply wouldn’t be able to hold it until he got to the loo. He had already come close to losing that battle more than once. For a time he wasn’t sure if John secretly wanted him to make a puddle on the floor or if he just liked watching him struggle to reach the toilet. Then John started to follow him down the hallway and Sherlock had his answer in the avid, hungry gaze that tracked his unsteady progress.

Yet John always stopped just outside the bathroom, even though Sherlock left the door open in invitation.  There were still rules to the game, still boundaries. They usually both had erections tenting out their trousers, but they had never seen one another naked and they weren’t lovers.  When John proclaimed that he wasn’t gay it was still technically the truth.  He might enjoy Sherlock’s desperation, but they didn’t have a sexual relationship as such.

That didn’t mean that Sherlock didn’t want one.

John released his tensions with random pick-ups, but that wasn’t his style. Sherlock lay on his bed and imagined letting go in front of John instead of almost, but never quite, wetting himself.  He started to masturbate. In his mind’s eye John stood in the kitchen with piss running down the legs of his jeans. John was moaning and clutching himself in the middle of the Marylebone Road.  He shoved Sherlock’s hand down into his crotch. ‘ _Don’t let go, I’ll piss myself if you let go…’_ Sherlock didn’t let go. He wanked John off in the street with all the rush-hour traffic going past. White semen coated his hands and then John started to piss uncontrollably. Sherlock groaned and pulled urgently on his erection. John fucked him afterwards, an intimacy he had never allowed anyone else, but John ploughed into him, half-dressed on the hall floor, and his bladder was bursting…

Oh, god, he was going to come if he didn’t slow down. He hadn’t had an orgasm for eight days and his cock was hypersensitive. “Stop, stop.” His hand was still pumping his erection. “Stop. Wait.”  He gasped and let go of his cock, which jerked in protest. “Wait.”

Sherlock forced himself to lie still for a full five minutes before he began to stroke his cock again. It felt marvellous to be so close to orgasm and to deny himself the pleasure of it until every sensation was magnified a hundredfold.  He glanced at his watch. It was four-twenty and John would be home from the surgery about five o’clock.  Perhaps he would let John find him edging his cock, assuming that he could keep it up until then. Sherlock grinned wolfishly, up was no problem when he was in this condition.

He swore when his mobile phone bleeped and almost ignored it, but then he thought that it might be a text from John.

_The Crown and Eagle. No games. JW_

Sherlock sat up in bed.  John would have normally asked if he fancied a pint or at least suggested a time to meet. The mere fact that he hadn’t told Sherlock that there was something wrong.  He ignored the throb in his groin and pulled on his clothes.

The pub was only a few streets away on the edge of Soho. Sherlock didn’t even brother with a taxi. He cut through the back streets and got there in record time.

John sat in a shadowy booth at the back of the pub, away from all the bustle of tourists and office workers.  His jacket cuffs were marred by two deep red stains and there were flecks of it on his shirt front.  Sherlock recognised the colour instantly. It was human blood and he was immediately thankful that it wasn’t John’s. “What happened?” he asked him.

John looked up at him with bleak eyes. He pushed a whisky glass across the table. “Sit down and have a drink.”

Sherlock sat and took one small sip of his whisky. Then he waited for John to speak.

“Do you know Queen Anne Street?” said John. “Stupid question, you know everywhere like the back of your hand.” He wrapped both his hands around his nearly empty glass. “I was on my way home, thinking about…about you and then I saw that there was a commotion up ahead, people shouting and a woman screaming.”

“So you went to see if you could help?”  That much was obvious from the bloodstains and John’s distressed state, but Sherlock would have realised it anyway. He knew his John.

“There had been a RTA…a kid, just a toddler really, not much more than a baby.  She’d run right out into the road, straight into the path of a delivery van. It wasn’t the driver’s fault, the poor sod will probably never get over it.” John rubbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “I said ‘let me through, I’m a doctor’…the father was ash-white and shaking like a leaf.  The mother grabbed my arm. She was begging me to save her baby, but the little girl was gone. Killed outright. Couldn’t the stupid bitch see that she was dead? It was obvious, for Christ’s sake!”

John’s voice had risen to a shout and Sherlock clasped his forearm. “Calm down, John.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Mr Genius Detective, no one expects you to raise the fucking dead.” John blinked rapidly. “I shouldn’t be letting it get to me like this, but kids, babies…Here, give me that bloody whisky if you don’t want it.”

Sherlock handed him the glass and John downed the contents in a couple of gulps. “Thanks.” To Sherlock’s surprise John put his hand over his. “Why the hell am I going to pieces like this?”

“Bad memories?” suggested Sherlock. “Afghanistan?” 

“Yeah, I saw my fair share of dead kids out here as well. God, I’m going to have some nightmares tonight. I’ll probably end up sleeping on the sofa with the all the lights on and the telly for company.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers. “You can always sleep with me if you want company.”

John yanked his hand away. “You callous bastard!”  He stood up abruptly, toppling over the empty chair next to him in the process. The resounding crash attracted the attention of everyone in the bar. “Do you think that I’m going to use a dead kid as an excuse to crawl into bed with you?”

“Do you need an excuse?” asked Sherlock calmly.

*

John got into Sherlock’s bed in the early hours of the morning. He pulled the bedclothes up around his neck and curled up into a tight ball. “I just want to sleep.”

“Sleep then,” said Sherlock. He reached out to smooth a stray strand of hair off John’s forehead, but John jerked away from his touch.

Sherlock ignored the ache of lust in his groin and kept very still until he was sure that John had drifted off.  A grey daylight seeped into the bedroom and he could see how exhausted John looked even in sleep.  He had heard him pacing about for half the night, fighting the demons that sleep would bring. More than once Sherlock had almost gone into the living room, but he knew that John had to be the one to come to him.

And now he had Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch.  Having John in his bed was a torment as well as a pleasure after days of self-denial and he certainly didn’t expect to get much more sleep tonight. Under different circumstances he would have risked masturbating while John slept, but it felt wrong somehow, like a betrayal of the trust John had placed in him. He couldn’t sneak away to the bathroom either because John would feel just as betrayed if he woke up to find himself alone.

Sherlock clenched his hands on the pillow and closed his eyes.  Eventually he fell into a doze fractured by erotic dreams and it was full daylight when he woke.

John had rolled over onto his back and he lay frowning at the ceiling. . “Are you hard? I am, but that’s no big deal, is it? Most men wake up with an erection so we can pretend that’s all it is, that it’s all perfectly normal.”

“Does it matter whether it is or not?” asked Sherlock cautiously. His cock certainly didn’t care. It stained against his pyjamas, trying to reach John.

“It does to me,” said John bitterly. “Yesterday in Queen Anne Street I was thinking, imagining…then there was that accident and it made me feel sullied, unclean. They were such a nice, normal little family and I suppose that I thought that was how I’d end up one day, with a wife and kids. Now I hardly ever bother to shag a woman and when I do it’s not her who does it for me. I imagine you struggling to hold your piss and that's what gets me off.”  He turned his head to look directly at Sherlock. “What the fuck have you done to me?”

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock and in that moment he was.

John’s breath came out in a long, weary huff. “There must have been something there already, something in me…sometimes I disgust myself.”

“Do I disgust you?” asked Sherlock in a mere whisper.

“You?” John threw back the bedcovers and sat up. “I love you to fucking bits.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday time beckons so I won't be posting an update for a week or two.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's trying to get back on the straight and narrow, then Sherlock gets poorly and needs a little TLC.

Two days later John announced that he was going away for the weekend.  “I think that we should lay off the piss play when I get back,” he said. “It's unhealthy and it isn’t doing either of us any good.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you very much,” said Sherlock coldly. “Shut the door on your way out and have a good crisis of conscience.”

John slammed rather than shut the door.  He reappeared on Tuesday afternoon with a box of home-made fudge for Mrs Hudson, a head-cold, and a mysterious new girlfriend. Sherlock didn’t bother to ask where he had been since he already knew; Aunty Gwen in Norwich, fish and chips, and a pint down the local with his cousin on Saturday night. It was all wonderfully dull and normal.

The new woman in John’s life didn’t stay a mystery for long, since he soon brought her home to meet his ‘flatmate’. Then he spent the evening on tenterhooks in case Sherlock said something he shouldn’t and that was just too great a temptation to resist.  Sherlock turned the full force of his charm on the boring dentist with the sensible shoes. Once he had her eating out of his hand he took a malicious delight in indulging in a little word play.

“So after about five hours and far too much caffeine I told John that I was going to have to go, that I simply couldn’t wait until the morning.” Sherlock winked at an enraged John. “And he said you’ll never get a train at this time of the night, of course being stubborn I still got a taxi to Paddington…or was it Waterloo?”

“It was King’s Cross,” said John from between gritted teeth.

“Ah, so it was,” said Sherlock cheerfully, although John looked ready to murder him.

For some reason John never invited his girlfriend round for the evening again, but he spent more and more time away from Baker Street and that made Sherlock’s petty victory seem very hollow indeed.

*

The two aspirin he had taken had done nothing to alleviate the crushing pain in Sherlock’s skull. In truth they probably hadn’t stayed down long enough to do him any good.  He staggered back from the loo after being sick for the third time and collapsed in a heap on the sofa.  How could it be so bloody cold in the middle of June? And why wasn’t the plaid blanket off the back of John’s chair making him feel any warmer after he had gone to all the effort of getting it?  Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to will his stomach to stop churning. He hated being ill. It was inconvenient and vomiting was so demeaning. Sherlock felt thoroughly irritated and sorry for himself.

John wasn’t here. John didn’t care.

_I love you to fucking bits._

And he did. Sherlock knew that he did, what he didn’t know was whether John could ever come to terms with that.

He drifted into a feverish doze until he was woken from his disjointed dreams by a light clicking on. John stood over him with a worried frown on his face.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?” John touched his forehead just where his headache throbbed and banged. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m cold, frozen…” complained Sherlock.  He blinked at John and rubbed his hand across his gritty eyes. “I just can’t get warm.”

John’s hand rested more firmly on his forehead. “You’ve got a temperature. What else is wrong?”

“Stomach.” Sherlock winced. He still felt dog-sick. “I threw up earlier.”

“Any diarrhoea?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly, “but mostly vomiting.”

“You bloody idiot,” said John angrily. “You’ve probably gone and given yourself a urinary tract infection with all your stupid games.”

Sherlock shook his head and regretted it when a sharp pain spiked through his neck. “I haven’t been holding it much recently. It isn’t the same without you.”  He instantly regretted the whispered confession. How pathetic did that make him sound?   He glared up at John. “It was your tuna pasta.”

“What tuna – That thing from Tesco? That’s been in the fridge for about a week. Didn’t you check the use by date?”

“Obviously not.” Sherlock sat up very cautiously and wrapped his arms around his aching stomach.  “Christ, it hurts.”

“Okay…” John half reached out to him. Then his hand dropped back to his side. “Did you do this on purpose?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, John. You’re not worth all this pain and humiliation.”

They stared at one another. Sherlock saw his own misery and grief mirrored in John’s haunted eyes. Then he felt the gorge risk in his throat. “Oh, fuck, I’m going to be sick again”

Sherlock rushed past John and just made it to the kitchen sink in time.  He clung to the metal rim, retching over and over again on an already empty stomach.  Tears ran down his cheeks and he didn’t want John to think that he was crying when it was just a physical reaction. It was nothing to do with being alone, nothing to do with missing him.

Gentle hands swiped his sweaty hair back off his face. “It’s okay, Sherlock, everything’s fine.”  John reached across and turned the cold water tap on. “You’ll feel better once it’s all out of your system.”  John kissed the crown of his head. “Just read the bloody use by date next time.”

Sherlock managed to choke out a half-laugh. He wiped his hands across his face. “Christ, fuck…”

John put his arm around his waist and pulled out a kitchen chair with his other hand. “Sit down for a minute. I’ll get you a glass of water, just sip it slowly and then we’ll get you into bed. The odds are you’ll be as right as rain in the morning.”

“The odds are I’m never going to pinch your pasta again.” Sherlock buried his head in his hands.

John laughed. He brought Sherlock his water and set about cleaning up the sink. Sherlock watched him through blurry eyes. “Aren’t you going to tell me how unhygienic that was?”

“It was better than throwing up on the living room floor,” said John.

“That’s what I thought.”

They exchanged tender smiles.  John ruffled Sherlock’s hair and rested his hand on his cheek. “Can you manage to get yourself ready for bed?”

It felt like a huge, daunting task, but Sherlock knew that he had to make the effort. John wouldn’t let him crash out on the sofa again and he wasn’t going to be undressed and put to bed like a six-year-old. “I’ll go and get myself sorted.”  He turned his head a fraction and kissed John’s palm. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” John looked almost shy for a moment. “Go and get ready then, you’ve got sick on your shirt and it does nothing for your image.”

Dogged determination got Sherlock though the bathroom routine; firstly toothpaste and mouthwash to get rid of the sour taste of his vomit. Then he shivered under a hot shower and started to sweat while he towelled himself dry. Finally he had a quick piss and headed gratefully towards his bedroom.  His stomach was still churning miserably and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to make a sudden dash back to the loo.

John waited for him with a glass of water and a couple of pills. “Here, take these, they’re only paracetamol.”

Sherlock was grateful to sit down on the edge of his bed. The room had started to waver and he was not about to faint like a hapless maiden in a cheap melodrama. “Ta,” His hand brushed John’s as he plucked the pills out of his palm. “I still can’t get warm.”

John pulled his oatmeal coloured jumper off. “Put this on over your pyjamas and slide in under the covers.”

Sherlock did and that helped a little, but most of the shivering was inside him.

“Right,” said John. “I’ll leave the water here for you and I’ve brought a bucket in just in case you need to throw up in the night.”  He dragged the bedclothes up around Sherlock’s hunched shoulders. “I…would you like some space or some company?”

“Company please.”

“I’ll get ready for bed and be back in about ten minutes then.”  John bent over and kissed Sherlock’s lips lightly. Then he made a hasty exit before he died of terminal embarrassment.

Sherlock thought that it was adorable. He touched his fingers to his mouth and then smuggled down in the bed. If only he didn’t feel so bloody awful, but he did and nothing adventurous was going to happen tonight. He had drifted into a dream-laced doze by the time John returned.

“You okay?” asked John quietly.

“Not bad.” Not good either, but he had started to feel a little better and John’s presence helped.

John got into bed beside him and settled on his back, which seemed to be his favourite sleeping position. Sherlock wondered if he snored, well he was about to find out.

“Are you still cold?” said John and then he put his arm around Sherlock without waiting for an answer. “Come here and get warm.”

Sherlock shifted into John’s embrace. He wasn’t used to this closeness, but it felt very pleasant indeed, especially when John started to stroke his hair.

“The word you’re looking for is prat,” John murmured into his temple.

“What?”

“As in John has been a complete and utter prat.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m used to that.”

“Cheeky git.” John kissed his forehead. “Are you comfortable like this?”

“Yes, more than, there’s just one thing.” Sherlock hesitated for a second before he took John’s hand and placed it over the soft cotton crotch of his pyjamas.

John gave him a gentle squeeze. “Inside?”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered into John’s neck.

John deftly undid the button fastening on Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and slipped his hand inside. He cupped it protectively over Sherlock’s flaccid cock and balls. “Is that all right?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock cuddled up to John and closed his eyes. He was asleep within moments.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Sherlock and John finally getting it together...

Half a dozen disjointed thoughts and memories jostled for space in Sherlock’s mind. He remembered the warmth and weight of John’s hand on his genitals.  His head ached and he still felt queasy.  He winced and hid his face in the pillow. The noise in the street rattled through his skull. John had given him another pill, but it hadn’t kicked in yet. He had also let him piss in the bucket so that he didn’t have to get out of bed at five o’clock in the morning. Nice John. He had taken the bucket away and gone for a shower.  John had told him to rest and promised him tea and toast.

There were times when Sherlock quite liked John.

No, more than liked.

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and put his hand into his open pyjama bottoms. He held himself just as John done the night before and imagined that it was John’s hand on him. It would be so good to fall asleep every night like that. Sherlock yawned.  He gave his half-hard cock a lazy little rub. It perked up immediately he began to play with himself and he saw no reason to stop when he heard John’s footsteps in the hall.

“Right, tea, toast and cornflakes for those of us who don’t want to starve to death.”  John put the tray down on the chest of drawers. He looked round at Sherlock. “Are you having a wank under there?”

“Just a bit of one.”

“Well, don’t mind me.”

“I won’t,” said Sherlock with a smile. The marvellous thing was that John didn’t seem to be put out at all. That pleased him more than any masturbation ever could, which only proved that he was getting far too bloody sentimental.

“You must be feeling better.” John abandoned the tea tray and sat on the edge of the bed.

“A lot better than I was.”  Sherlock watched John, whose gaze was riveted to his hand moving up and down under the bedclothes. He arched his hips to give John a better view. “Lie down beside me for a minute.”

John looked uncertain for a moment before he stretched out on top of the bed. Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and they kissed, gently at first and then with increasing fire. John propped himself up one elbow and lowered his head to kiss Sherlock again.  He was a good kisser; no wonder the women liked him. Sherlock kept one hand on his cock and clasped the back of John’s head with the other. There was definitely something to be said for this kissing business.

John pulled back a fraction. “You’re still doing yourself, aren’t you?”  His lips blushed over Sherlock’s. “That’s so fucking sexy, you wanting it so much that you can’t stop wanking while I’m kissing you.”  John moaned and rubbed his pelvis against Sherlock through the blankets. “God, I’m so bloody hard.”

“Undress,” said Sherlock between kisses. “Get back into bed with me.”

John tensed. “I’ve never been with a man.”

“Either have I.” There had been something once, long ago, but that didn’t count.

John giggled. “The blind leading the blind then…”

Sherlock put his free hand on the front of John’s trousers. “They’ll know what to do.”

“Just trust our instincts?”  John scrambled to his feet. He unbuttoned his shirt with quick, nervous fingers and then pulled his trousers and boxer shorts down to reveal an impressive erection.

Sherlock threw back the blankets and John knelt on the crumpled white sheet.  Sherlock kicked off his pyjama bottoms.

“Arms up,” said John and he pulled the jumper and pyjama top over Sherlock’s head together. They kissed again. Their hands tangled in each other’s hair and clutched at solid muscular shoulders.

“Touch yourself,” murmured John. “Touch your cock as if you can’t bear not to…”

Sherlock stretched, flauntingly himself. “Oh god, John, I can’t stop wanking.”

“Lying bastard,” said John breathlessly.

Sherlock was too aroused to know whether it was true or not. He dragged John down beside him and kissed him passionately. John hooked one leg over his right thigh and rubbed his erection on his hip. Memory sparked for an instant only to be immediately lost in the intensity of the moment.

“Give it to me.” John put his hand over Sherlock’s and tugged it aside. He wrapped his own hand possessively around Sherlock’s erection. “Love this…when you’re desperate and you keep rubbing it…” John moaned. “God, fuck…”

Sherlock fastened his lips onto John’s as they undulated on the bed. He had never known how soft John’s freshly washed hair was. He had never kissed the bullet scar on his shoulder.  Nor had he ever wriggled his hand in between their close pressed bodies to grasp John’s cock.

John gasped and surged up against him. “God…”

Sherlock jerked John’s erection, using all the same touches and twists he always used on himself. It quivered in his hand, soft skin over stiff flesh, alive and responsive to his every touch and yet strangely not his own. There was a hot, cunning hand on his cock; a technique subtlety different to his own. Sherlock tried to mirror it through a haze of lust, to give John exactly what he wanted. It felt strange to hear John’s ragged breathing and to smell his own aftershave, mingled with the scent of sex, on John’s skin.  This had always been a solitary pleasure. One he never felt the need to share before John…

Oh god, before John changed tack, copying his own movements and creating a feedback loop of sensation. Muscles tightened and tensed. Every movement of their hands stoked the fire and Sherlock felt it ignite deep inside him.

“John, I’m…” Sherlock froze on the crest of orgasm.

John moaned and his hips jerked in uncoordinated spasms.

Photo finish; shuddering and groaning together as they came. Still locked tight in each other’s arm they flopped back into the tangled bedclothes.  Sherlock pressed his forehead into John’s shoulder.  His heart pounded furiously and his stomach cramped up. He must have made some small sound of distress because John cupped his face in his hands.

“Are you all right?” asked John anxiously.

“Yes, it was just a bit much…”  Sherlock felt shaky and wrung out. “It was worth it though.”

“We should have waited until you were better.” John kissed him tenderly and drew him into his embrace. “Just lie quietly and get your breath back. You’ll be okay.”

Sherlock snuggled up to John. “I will with you around.”

“Me too,” said John, “with you, I mean.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “Have a sleep.”

“Not for too long, I don’t want to sleep all day.” This was their time, his and John’s, and Sherlock didn’t want to waste it.

“Well, I’m not planning to run any marathons. A lazy Sunday is definitely what the doctor ordered and don’t even think about holding it, just piss whenever you need to go.”

Sherlock was far too tired and sore to make the effort, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t get some enjoyment out of answering the call of nature. “Will you hold my cock for me while I piss?”

John was silent for a second and then he hugged Sherlock. “Only if you’ll do the same for me.”

Sherlock lifted his head so that he could look into John’s face. “You haven’t even let me watch you go since that first night when you got drunk and pissed in the street.”

“Prat with a capital P,” said John sheepishly. He touched Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m going to finish with Clare later.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good. Then it’ll be just us, the two musketeers.”

“The two stooges more like,” said John ruefully.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time it's John who's pushing the boundaries...

The nature of their private life remained just that, private. Their relationship did not and people reacted to it with boring predictability. Mrs Hudson kept dropping hints about Mrs Turner’s married ones and how nice it would be to have everything all tidy and legal. Anderson sneered sotto-voce whenever Lestrade was out of earshot. Molly congratulated them and came back from the ladies ten minutes later with red-rimed eyes and a soggy Kleenex shoved up her sleeve.

Only from one quarter was there a silence which either spoke volumes or indicated total disinterest.

One the news had flashed across social networking sites and into the tabloid media life went on much as before. The bicycle killer still evaded them, but they caught the penguin poisoner; the chocolate biscuits in the supermarket, John explained on his blog, not the birds in the zoo.

They still bickered and argued as well, sometimes over Sherlock’s investigations or whose turn it was to buy fresh milk. Even their ever expanding sexual repertoire led to some quarrelsome exchanges.

“You must have carried out an anal examination before,” Sherlock muttered darkly into his pillow.

“Not with my cock, I haven’t,” John retorted. He slapped Sherlock’s bare bum. “Now will you please keep still?”

“That gel’s too cold and I wanted to do this with a full bladder.”

“Not the first time,” said John with exaggerated patience. “This is difficult enough without you being all frantic and wriggly, you really are a tight-arsed git.”

The desperation games took on new dimensions now that there were two of them coming up with new scenarios and fantasies.  Not that they had yet done anything truly outrageous, at least not by their standards, but Sherlock was always open to suggestions. He liked to lie in bed, coaxing ideas out of John with his hands and mouth.  Sherlock rolled John’s right nipple between his thumb and forefinger.  “So, if you’ve gone to a medical conference in Birmingham and I’m not allowed to piss in the living room-“

“Or anywhere else in the flat, apart from in the loo, of course,” said John firmly.

“But I’m only allowed to use the loo once you get home and you’re going to be away for about twelve hours, so what do I do if I just can’t wait that long?”

“Don’t know.” John buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and muttered something that sounded like ‘happy’.

“Well, you might be, but-“   Sherlock realised what John had actually said. “I am not wearing a nappy!”

John’s head shot up. “You wouldn’t have to use it…well, not unless you had to use it.”  

“What would be the point of my wearing a nappy if I wasn’t going to piss in it?”

“It would just be a precaution, in case you had an accident before I got home. Don’t get all uppity, it was only a thought.”

Sherlock decided that be was not going to be beguiled by John’s determination not to be embarrassed. He really was adorable sometimes.  Yet this fantasy of John’s wasn’t one that Sherlock was entirely comfortable with, if anything it all seemed rather ridiculous.

 “It isn’t very dignified,” he said doubtfully.

 John snorted. “It’s about as dignified as all that wriggling and whimpering you do when you’re desperate.”

“I do not whimper.”

“Yes, you do. I can tell when you’re about to lose control by the noises you make.  There’s this little cry that you always give just before it comes out…God, it drives me crazy.”  Any reply Sherlock might have made was obliterated by the heat of John’s kisses. 

When John finally raised his head a fraction Sherlock smiled at him. “And the idea of me going in a nappy turns you on?”

Now John couldn’t hide his blushes. “It’s more the idea of you _not_ going in a nappy.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Explain?”

“Do I have to?” John sighed. “Okay, let’s just suppose that I’m going to that medical conference, I fasten you up in your nappy, all dry and snug, and then I leave you for a few hours.”

John fell silent, but Sherlock could see from his dilated pupils that the fantasy was still playing out in his mind. “Tell me,” he said softly.

“After a while you start to feel an urge to go. It’s nothing much at first, but as time goes on it gets more and more urgent. You’re desperate, absolutely bursting for a piss, but you’ve got a nappy on, so where’s the problem?  You can relieve yourself in safety and comfort, and you’re dying to let go, but you can’t piss because you promised me…”

“That I’ll hold it until you come home, even if you don’t return for endless hours?” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear.

John nodded jerkily. “If anything comes out by accident the nappy will absorb it, but wearing it doesn’t give you the right to let go voluntarily.” He bit his lower lip. “You still have to hold it.”

John’s neck and chest were flushed with arousal.  If he was this turned on just thinking about it then Sherlock was willing to consider it.  He didn’t find the idea of wearing a nappy particularly erotic, but if it left him with a frantic over-excited John on his hands it had to be more than worth the absurdity of it all.

Sherlock pinned John’s hands above his head and kissed him soundly. “I will, I’ll hold it all day for you unless I lose control and wet my nappy.”

John grinned. “Fuck me,” he whispered and Sherlock decided that there was certainly something to be said for this nappy lark.

*

It was pride that wouldn’t let him back out, not the someone-stole-my-teddy look on John’s face. Sherlock was not about to be moved by his downcast mouth and disappointed eyes. Although he would have preferred it if John had got angry he most certainly didn’t do guilty conscience.   He grabbed John’s arm just as he started to rise from the floor. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to.” John was upset and embarrassed.

The latter puzzled Sherlock for a second until he realised how much John had bared his soul for this, trust like that could not be thrown away lightly. “I want to, John. I just felt silly before, self-conscious, a grown man in a nappy.”

“Think yourself lucky I haven’t bought you a dummy,” John joked. There was a glimmer of hopeful mischief in his eyes.

Sherlock nudged his shoulder. “I’ve already got one, thanks.”

“Oh, I’m going to make you so sorry that you said that.” John slapped him lightly on the knee. “Right, lie on the bed for me and we’ll get your nappy back on before you have an accident.”

“I don’t even want to go that much,” protested Sherlock as he settled back on the quilt.

“Make the most of it,” said John, “with the amount you drank you’re going to be bursting in an hour or so.”

Sherlock knew that he was right. He reached up and carded his fingers idly through John’s hair. “How long will you be out for?”

“Oh, not to long, I’m only going to Asda, just a couple of hours.”  John kissed Sherlock on the mouth. “Don’t pout, you’ll just have to wait until I get back or go in your nappy if you really can’t hold it.”  He patted Sherlock’s hip. “Lift up for me now, there’s a good boy.”

“Fuck off,” said Sherlock, but for once in his life he did as he was told.

A couple of minutes later John sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork. “How does it feel?”

“Odd, but not unpleasant,” admitted Sherlock.  The first time he had let John put the nappy on him he had felt too much of an idiot to take much notice of the actual sensations involved. “It’s tight, but not too constricting. I like the way it feels around my cock and balls.” There was a warm comfort in the soft padding that he hadn’t expected. It was like a faint echo of the way it felt when John cupped his genitals before they went to sleep at night.  “It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Now that you’ve got over your panic,” said John knowingly. He ran his hand over Sherlock’s biceps and chest.  “I would never have suggested it if I thought that you would hate it, but I knew that there was a chance that you might just enjoy it in the end.” John kissed him deeply. “I probably won’t be out for long. Two hours in the frozen food aisle with a cock like a tent pole won’t be much fun.”

“Stick it in the freezer.”  Sherlock interlaced his fingers around the back of John’s neck. “Or just stay here with me, stay and watch me. I’ll be desperate soon, struggling not to go in my nappy without your permission.”

“God…” John rested the flat of his hand on the white padding that covered Sherlock’s abdomen. “I’ll probably get arrested if I go out in this state and I don’t want to leave you anyway.”

A slow smile blossomed on Sherlock’s face. “Stay then.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today because I won't be able to post one next week, back the week after.

The best laid plans of debauched ex-army doctors sometimes went a little awry and this was one of those times.  Sherlock decided that scowl of frustration on John’s face was well worth the embarrassment of soaking his nappy.

“Sorry,” he said, although he wasn’t actually that sorry at all now he had got over the initial mortification.

John half-lifted his head and slammed it back into the pillow. “I was that close.” He held up his thumb and forefinger barely a quarter of an inch apart. “Couldn’t you have held on for another two minutes?”

It was rhetorical question. They both knew that he would have waited if he could have, but Sherlock’s body had decided that it didn’t care about John getting a blowjob. Neither John’s groaning pleas nor Sherlock’s frantic efforts to stem the flow had been of any avail. Hot piss had flooded into his nappy and a thin trickle had run down his right thigh.

John traced that line of wetness with his fingertips. “You can finish me off now, you know.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure that he wanted to with the sagging nappy weighing him down. He would rather have disposed of it and taken a shower first, but he didn’t think that John’s patience would stretch quite that far. “Why not, after all it isn’t going to take long, is it? I’d say about ninety seconds judging by the state of you.” John was gloriously hard and his cock was oozing clear fluid. It was almost a shame to spoil such a pretty picture by making him come. “That is if you’re sure you want me to get you off?”

“Just bleeding well get on with it, will you?”  John thrust his pelvis up. “Unlike you I don’t enjoy having a serious case of blue balls.”

Sherlock chuckled and obliged. He added a curling swipe of his tongue to every bob of his head and he was sure that John didn’t even make the ninety second mark.

“That was at least three minutes,” said John. He moved so that his head was more comfortably pillowed on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“A whole three minutes, we’ll have to inform the Guinness Book of Records.”

 “Belt up.” John touched Sherlock’s stomach where white nappy met soft skin. “Do you want this off now?”

“Yes.”  The drenched nappy felt heavy and wet enough to mar his contentment, but it was a long trek to the bathroom. “In a moment.”

“You didn’t particularly enjoy wearing it, did you?” asked John.

“I enjoyed you enjoying it,” said Sherlock carefully, “and I would do it again …occasionally.”

John kissed the base of Sherlock’s throat. “Every Preston Guild.”

“Perhaps not quite that often,” joked Sherlock. The Preston Guild was held every ten years.

“Do you think that we’ll still be together in ten years?”  John sounded melancholy. He wrapped Sherlock’s arm more securely around his shoulders and interlaced his fingers with his. “Or will you just be someone I used to know?”

“Not if you don’t want me to be.” Sherlock couldn’t imagine ever sharing his life with anyone other than John. “You can throw a party for our tenth anniversary and invite all your friends.”

“What about your friends?”

Sherlock rolled over so that he was looking into John’s eyes. “I don’t have any, I only have you.”

John blinked, too rapidly and drew him down into a loving kiss before the tears could fall. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close. “I don’t have that many people to invite,” said John after a few moments. “Greg Lestrade, Mike Stanford and his wife.  We could ask Donovan and Anderson just so you can gloat and make snide remarks. Molly might be awkward although she ought to be over you by then. Mrs Hudson, if she’s still alive and my sister, Harry, if she hasn’t drunk herself to death.  God, this is getting depressing. And you’ll have to ask Mycroft.”

“Which is the most depressing thought of all.”

John stroked Sherlock’s back. “Have you still not heard anything from him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s probably off starting a war somewhere.”

“Not for six bloody weeks he isn’t.” John kissed Sherlock’s brow. “Do you think that he disapproves of us? Not that I give a flying fuck if he does.”

Sherlock sat up abruptly. “No, I don’t think that’s the reason for his silence.”  He indicated the nappy with a wave of his hand. “This thing’s getting uncomfortable and smelly. Let’s go to the bathroom and get rid of it.”

*

Sherlock felt more like himself afterwards; showered and shaved, and dressed in lazy day pyjama trousers and t-shirt.  It was funny how doing nothing, which would have normally bored him to distraction, became a fascinating occupation when John was involved.

They were on the sofa, in an entanglement of arms and legs that could only be described as a cuddle. If Sherlock glanced at the window the day was nondescript, neither sunshine nor rain, as if it had mellowed out to suit their mood. John was almost dozing, head tilted against the sofa arm and soft brown eyelashes flickering.  His check shirt was unbuttoned and Sherlock could not resist wending a path from navel to nipple.

John slapped his hand. “Stop that, it trickles.”

“Okay.” Sherlock unzipped John’s old jeans instead and slipped his hand inside.

“After an hour at my age? You’ll be bloody lucky.” Nevertheless John pressed himself more firmly into Sherlock’s palm. “It’s nice though…mm, I can see why you like to fall asleep like this.”

“It feels good when I’ve come and even better when I haven’t.” Sherlock nuzzled John’s hairline. “I haven’t come yet today.”

“What?” John’s eyes flew open. “Why didn’t you say? I thought you got off when you were thrashing about in the nappy.”  A suspicious look crossed his face. “Is that why you didn’t want me to share the shower with you? I thought it was because you needed to get your head around all that nappy stuff, but you didn’t want me to see that you were all hard and horny.”

“I thought that it would be a nice surprise for later.”

“Okay, I’m surprised.” John slid his hand under Sherlock’s t-shirt. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

Sherlock’s smile was positively salacious. “I don’t care what you do as long as you do it slowly.”

“Oh, it’s like that is it?” John smiled back at him. “I honestly don’t see the appeal of frustration or why I should spend my afternoon pandering to your every whim.”

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa. “Do you have anything better to do?”

“I’m sure I could think of something.” John bowed his head and puffed a soft breath over Sherlock’s chest, and again where his left nipple had already began to peak. “How long?”

“You should know that by now.” Sherlock wriggled down into the cushions.

John swiped his tongue over Sherlock’s nipple. “How long since you had an orgasm, idiot?”

“When you gave me that blow job on Wednesday night.”  Sherlock cradled John’s head to his chest. “Mmm…”

“And it’s Friday afternoon and we’ve been playing a desperation game. Oh, I am going to enjoy this.”  John reached down and covered Sherlock’s erection with his hand.  “I’ve barely touched you yet and this is already standing to attention. What’s it going to be like in an hour or two?”

Sherlock decided that John was far too good at this well before the first hour was up. Christ, the man knew how to tease. His hand would curl around Sherlock’s balls in tender possession while his devil’s tongue flicked over the head of his cock. Then the bastard would sit back on his heels, cheeky and cheerful, and make him wait.

“Say please,” said John and his hand would blur on Sherlock’s cock; a wonderfully rapid movement that Sherlock barely had time to thrust into before it stopped. “You didn’t say please.”

“Fuck off!”  Sherlock groaned. John’s leg was hooked over his thigh and his left arm was wrapped around his neck. When he turned his head to protest or beg John’s tongue plundered his mouth. While they kissed John’s right hand reclaimed his cock; up and down, a twist of his wrist and the polish of his slightly calloused palm over the sensitive head. 

Sherlock tore his mouth away from John’s. “Close…so close…”

John stopped and his lips brushed Sherlock’s earlobe. “Tell me that you love me.”

“Obviously.”  Sherlock pushed up into that maddeningly still hand. “Let me come…please….”

“Not quite good enough I’m afraid,” murmured John against his mouth. His hand drifted over Sherlock like a lazy cloud, downy soft and tormenting. “You asked for slow and I haven’t got anything else to do today…”

“Bastard!”

John chuckled and went right on teasing him. There was a little sweet revenge in the urgent rub of John’s erection on his leg.  John’s cock had swollen and lengthened, and it seemed to have forgotten that it had already had its pleasure for today.

“Hoisted by your own petard,” whispered Sherlock breathlessly into John’s ear.

John moaned and thrust spasmodically into his thigh. Sherlock was certain that he climaxed at least a whole minute before his own control finally shattered.

“And I thought soldiers knew a lot of swear words.” John’s giggle caught in his throat and he coughed. “Christ, you’ll be the death of me yet.”

Sherlock was almost too winded and sated to speak. He brushed the back of his hand over John’s sweat damp face. “John?”

“Mm, yeah?”  John snuggled into his side.

“I do love you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More games as their relationship moves forward...

They compromised on twilight, on the first electric reflections on the Thames. Fantasy was the glare of summer sunlight and safety could be found in night’s shadows.  So they walked the middle path, one well-trodden in erotic imagination for many weeks.

Sherlock looked up at the deepening blue sky. At this time of year it would not shade into black much before midnight. He squeezed his legs together under the bench. They were outside a pub in a street bustling with tourists and shoppers.  A tender breeze ruffled straps on skimpy dresses and the paper napkins on the table.

John caught one an instant before it took flight and weighed it down with an empty glass. “They said we might get a shower or two later.” Sherlock grinned wolfishly and John chuckled. “I meant the weather, but on the other hand…”

“Oh, it’s going to be more than a shower.” Sherlock winked. “More like a torrential downpour I’d say.”

“But not until later?” 

 Sherlock shook his head. “Not for an hour or so.”

“We’ll see about that, sometimes these forecasts are wildly inaccurate.”  John’s eyes glinted impishly.  He looked happy and relaxed.  “There might be an unexpected cloudburst.”

“I can wait.”  Sherlock rested his hand on his midriff and turned his mind in upon himself. There was a sensation, as familiar as breathing, at the base of his cock.  It had lingered there since mid-afternoon. Firstly as an insistent whisper that had faded for a time when he refused to heed it.  Then it had returned, demanding that he acquiesce to its demands.  That was something that he had no intention of doing just yet, no matter how much the urge nagged at him.

“Perhaps we should make a move soon though,” suggested John. “A little reconnaissance?”

“Soon,” agreed Sherlock. After talking it through they had decided to wing it; to deal with obstacles and grab opportunities as they arose, rather than adopt a predefined plan. It made this whole venue far more exciting and risky. If he couldn’t find a safe place to piss before his bladder gave out then he was in for some very public humiliation.

John indicated the wide Georgian street. “Left or right, gorgeous?”

Left would take them further into south London, to the Elephant & Castle and Kennington. Right would take them back to Southwark Bridge and the tidal waters of the Thames.  Sherlock weighed up the dangers and the enticements of either option at lightning speed. “Right.”

“A slow stroll down to the embankment?”  

Sherlock’s gaze met John’s; agreement, anticipation and affection sparkled in his eyes.  John’s mouth quirked up.  “Let’s get moving then.”

Some of the old fashioned specialist shops had closed for the day, but the newsagents and mini supermarkets still had their doors open to the world. As did the many restaurants and pubs they passed.   People rose in a bustling tide from Borough underground station. Sherlock knew that nearly all of London would be like this; full of people drawn out from homes and offices by the barmy summer evening.  It wouldn’t be easy to find somewhere to piss relatively unnoticed.  Even though the sun had slipped away behind the towers of Cannery Wharf it was far from dark.  When he looked up it was into a sky that held stubbornly onto its daylight blue, only reluctantly deepening it tone by tone.

One of the London Parks, dappled with evening, would be his best bet, but they were all a long way off on the other side of the river.  The underground would take them there quickest and there was nothing in the rules of the game that prohibited its use.  Only he hated the close press of humanity in the humid heat even when he wasn’t desperate.   Sherlock stood up and felt the weight inside him shift.  Perhaps John was right and his estimate of another hour was overly optimistic. He stepped around the table and the movement made him certain that he wasn’t going to last anywhere near that long. 

“Are you okay?” John was watching him intently.

“You may have been right about that cloudburst.”  Even a fortnight ago Sherlock wouldn’t have admitted to being wrong, but their lives were so entwined now that he felt no shame in confessing that he’d miscalculated.

“How soon?”

“No more than twenty.”

“Try for the South Bank?” suggested John.  “We could get there in fifteen.”

Sherlock saw the tidal expanse of the Thames in his head and a spasm of urgency cut through his abdomen.  He couldn’t think of an alternative though and the embankment wouldn’t be as busy as the streets.  “All right.”

The walk down to the river wasn’t an easy one for Sherlock. His bladder cramped up incessantly and he cursed more than one meandering tourist who got in his way.

“Sorry,” muttered John as he pushed past people trying to keep up with Sherlock. “Can’t you slow down for a minute?”

“No, I want to go.”  Another strong pulse of need made Sherlock fear that he was about to lose control. He bit back a moan. “Oh god, I’ve got to find somewhere to piss.”

“We will do. It’ll be fine.” John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ve seen you hold on through a lot worse than this.”

“Not in public, not when I can’t…” Sherlock stopped abruptly. “Oh fuck, I need to go now.”

“You can’t go in the middle of the street.” John took his arm.  “You’ll have to wait until we can find a quiet spot down on the embankment.”

“If I can…” Sherlock shifted his feet restlessly. He wanted to cross his legs and hold himself.  How obvious would that be and how humiliating?  If he was going to do that he might just as well give up and wet himself where he stood.  “Under Southwark Bridge, if I can make it that far.”

“It’s okay, you’ll make it,” said John. He was calm and reassuring, and there was a gleam of something altogether far more unholy in his eyes.

Sherlock felt it too, lurking like a fiery shadow beneath the stress and the fear that he would piss himself, excitement fuelled by the insane risk he was taking.  A gambler’s chance and John at his side; adrenaline surged through his veins and he grinned like a comic-book lunatic .

“Idiot,” said John laughingly.  Then he did something he had never done before, he curved his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him in public.

Even in busy, cosmopolitan London they drew a few curious glances. Sherlock decided that they had better move on before he gave the populace another reason to stare. He held his hand out to John and squeezed his fingers as they hurried towards the embankment in lieu of what he really wanted to squeeze.     

“Oh Christ, I’m desperate.”  The Thames taunted him with its silvery, rippling movement. He wanted to go so badly it hurt.

“It’s not much further now,” said John.

Sherlock winced. He was horribly afraid that it might be too far. Every one of the steep concrete steps down to the riverside made his bladder pound with urgency.  Sherlock looked up, the remnants of daylight still clung to the horizon, but the electric lamps were reflected bowls of brilliance in the river. There was too much light and too many people enjoying the summer evening. His body didn’t care. Fresh sweat ran down his back. Another cramp surged through him and he knew that he was going to piss helplessly in the next couple of minutes. Sherlock groaned. “Hurry, John.” Southwark Bridge loomed before them, spanning the darkly rolling water.  “Oh god, fuck…”

“It’s okay,” whispered John and that was oddly comforting, even though Sherlock knew that it was very far from okay.

The tunnel under the bridge, brightly lit and decorated with frost fair friezes, offered no sanctuary.   There was a dark gape of shadow beyond it where the iron ribs of the bridge curved upwards.  Sherlock quickened his pace, almost breaking into a half-run.  He dodged a cyclist coming the other way and cut around a young couple.  Solitude was a forlorn hope, but the gloom under the bridge provided some concealment.  

It was just another few yards now to the last but one span of the bridge.  John was still at his side, keeping up through sheer bloody minded determination. That was about all that was holding Sherlock together, all that kept him from surrendering to the terrible need to piss.  

Sherlock gasped. A thin trickle had forced its way past his self-control and he abandoned the race for the end of the bridge.  He thrust his hand into his crotch and hobbled into the shadow of the nearest arch.

Sherlock heard John’s breathing at his back, laboured from exertion and excitement. “Can you get it out?” he asked breathlessly.

“Not in time. Oh fuck…” Sherlock ripped at zip and fabric, but he was already going full stream, soaking the front of his boxer shorts before he managed to pull his cock out. “Fuck...” His piss poured onto the ground. Sherlock was dimly aware of people passing by, but the relief was intense and he didn’t give a damn who saw him.

“Christ, I could fuck you right here.” John’s voice was thick with lust.

Sherlock chuckled wickedly. “We can’t…” He was tempted though, but they’d never get away with it, not here. He leant his forehead on his forearm, using the metal beam for support. John rubbed his back and he breathed out as the last drops of piss dripped away. Some instinct made him raise his head and look sharply to the right. They had an audience. A tall man with cropped blonde hair who winked at Sherlock and ran the tip of his tongue over his lip.

John put his arm possessively around Sherlock’s waist. “Sorry, private party.” He sounded amiable enough, but Sherlock knew that he’d rip the guy’s balls off if he came anywhere near him.

The blonde shrugged. “Pity.” He blew them a farewell kiss. “Have fun, boys.”

They looked at one another and started to giggle helplessly. John kissed Sherlock passionately and slid his hand into his open trousers. “Where?” he demanded.

“Empty office block just down there.” Sherlock pointed at towering square in the dust. “There’s a blind alley.”

It was more of crevice than an alley, just wide enough for them both to squeeze in and for John to position himself behind Sherlock with their trousers pooled around their ankles. They had never fucked in the open air before; never to an accompaniment of footsteps and voices mere yards away.  And they both loved it, shaking and trembling, coming as if there was no tomorrow.

They were sheepish afterwards, abashed and amazed by what they had done, but they tumbled eagerly into Sherlock’s bed the moment they got back to Baker Street.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovers shouldn't keep secrets from one another...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a bit early as I may not get a chance later on in the week. 
> 
> I hope that the theme of this chapter won't put people off, as always this story is primarily about Sherlock and John.

They were curled up together in a post-coital embrace, covered by a soft duvet in a haphazard nest of pillows. It was mid-morning, but they weren’t in any hurry to get out of bed. John yawned and chuckled softly. “I bet that guy beat off thinking about us.”

“Hmm?”  Sherlock’s long fingers stroked lazily over John’s shoulder and upper arm.

“The blonde down on the embankment last night.”

“Oh, him.” Sherlock sounded totally disinterested. “Tourist. German mother, Welsh father, with a wife at home who doesn’t know that he’s into men and pissing. He would have only wanked off in his hotel room if he couldn’t find a playmate.”

“Well, he wasn’t playing with you, that’s my prerogative.” John leant over and kissed Sherlock. “I’m not into sharing.”

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “You wanted me to share a woman with you once.”

“That’s different, women don’t count, but I wouldn’t do it now though. If I want to see you fucked out of your head I know exactly which buttons to press.” John kissed Sherlock again with more passion, even though either of them was ready for another bout of love-making.  Passion ebbed into gentleness and cuddling. John ran his hand down Sherlock’s side and rested it on his hipbone.  “I’ll tell you a secret, the only guy I ever had a crush on was blonde.”

Sherlock’s head shot up. He looked horrified. “You had a crush on a guy?  John, are you trying to tell me that you’re gay?”

“Idiot!”  John aimed a mock blow at Sherlock and a laughing, tussling, wrestling match followed.

“So who was your blonde Adonis?” asked Sherlock when they settled down again.

John snuggled up to him. “Just bear in mind that I was only fourteen, will you?  His name was Gary Tate and he was a centre forward in the school football team. Tall – I wanted to be tall and even then I knew that I wasn’t going to be – with big dark eyes. He had some sort of Italian ancestry.  Everyone liked him. He was clever and athletic, and I… don’t laugh, but I thought that he was incredibly handsome.”

“Well, that was before you met me, wasn’t it?” said Sherlock smugly. “So did anything ever come of this first love of yours?”

“It was a crush, not love, and I don’t think that I ever said more than six words to him.”  John rubbed his hand up Sherlock’s spine and slid his fingers into his hair. “So tit-for-tat, tell me about your first crush.”

Sherlock tensed. “It was nothing, just adolescent foolishness.”

 John laughed. “That’s the point, dopey. Come on, tell me, teacher, classmate, best friend, best friend’s big brother or dad?”

“None of the above.”

 “Somebody famous then, actor, singer, politician?”

 “No,” said Sherlock quietly.  He sat up abruptly with the tangled sheet draped over his lap and rested his elbows on his knees. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Lavatory attendant?” suggested John, but he wasn’t laughing anymore. He touched the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Are you okay up there?”

Sherlock nodded. He clasped his hands and stared off into the middle distance. “You won’t like it, John.”

“Try me.” John pulled himself into a sitting position and put his arm around Sherlock. “I’m not going to freak out.” He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and interlaced his fingers with his. “So are you going to tell me or shall I take another guess?”

Sherlock took a deep, harsh breath. “How did you know?”

“I know you.”

“Yes, you do, don’t you?” said Sherlock, “and in ways that I never imagined that anyone ever would.”  He kissed John tenderly and tugged him down into the tangled sheets. Sherlock rested his forehead on John’s. “Christ, I love you.”

“I love you too and I don’t give a tinker’s damn about your adolescent foolishness.”

Sherlock regarded him steadily. “You’re curious though, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You want to know what I thought, what I felt about Mycroft.  It’s something that you can almost grasp and yet you can’t quite imagine having a crush on your own brother. You can’t decide whether you’re titillated or repelled, can you?”

 “I think the first one’s probably winning out,” admitted John.

Sherlock grinned. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be embarrassed, not you.”

 “Shut up.” John hugged Sherlock tightly, drawing him closer until they lay with their heads on a single pillow. “Okay, so I’m curious, but it isn’t all salacious. It couldn’t have been easy for you as a teenager holding onto a secret like that, but it was hardly something that you could discuss with you mum and dad.”

“There was very little that I could discuss with my parents.”

“Mine were okay about most things.” John stroked Sherlock’s face. “I know it’s dumb, but I wish you could have met them.”

“I don’t do families, John. I’m not good at that sort of stuff. Either I’m the black sheep, the outsider, or I’m fifteen and wanking off over my brother every night.”

 “Anything looks good at that age.” John returned Sherlock’s half-smile. “I used to shag the sofa.”

“It probably had more personality than Mycroft.”

John laughed. “I suppose Mr Know-it-all realised that you were interested in him?”

“We never openly acknowledged it,” said Sherlock. “It was all shadow play. Mycroft pretended not to notice how desperately enamoured I was and I tried to fake indifference, which would have worked with anyone else.”

“But not with Mycroft?”  There was a note of trepidation in John’s voice. “I suppose he just thought that you’d grow out of it, least said soonest mended and all that…just as long as nothing ever came of it.”

Sherlock heard the unspoken question. “Two minutes ago you were fine with all this, why the sudden change of heart?”

John sat up again so that he was looking directly at Sherlock. “Maybe because I’ve started to wonder if this was ever anything more than a teenage crush.”  He clasped Sherlock’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“Truth, dare, kiss or promise?” Sherlock smiled sadly. He lifted his hand to cradle John’s cheek. “We were never lovers, never as we are now, but there was just one occasion when we came close to it.”

John kissed his palm. “Tell me.”

“Mycroft was twenty-two and he’d just finished his PhD-”

“No one finishes a PhD at twenty-two.”

“Mycroft did. He’s a genius, but don’t tell him that I said so.”  Sherlock tugged on John’s arm. “Lie down here beside me. You may as well be morally outraged in comfort.”  He was relieved when John sunk back into his embrace, a refusal would have hurt him dreadfully. “So he came home from Cambridge for the summer and we snapped and sneered at one another as usual. You know that I can be difficult on occasion.”

“You don’t say.” John took his hand. “It’s okay. I won’t die of shock.”

“Good, I’ve never been into necrophilia.”  Sherlock kissed John’s lips. “One day I set out to be as provoking as possible. Mycroft knew that it was deliberate, that I was taunting him, daring him to either punch me or kiss me.  I was a constant irritation and I suppose a constant temptation….Somehow we ended up in my bedroom, it was mid-afternoon and we were both fully clothed.” He fell silence and then picked up the thread of his narrative. “Mycroft finally snapped. He said that he was going to put me across his knee and teach me a lesson, which was just what I wanted, but I told him to fuck off.  There was a scuffle and we landed up sprawled across my bed, wrestling with one another. His thigh was between my legs, pressed right up into my groin…”

“What happened?” whispered John.

“I had an orgasm. Mycroft held me in his arms until I finished and then he got up and walked away.”

“Did…did he have an erection?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock pressed his lips to the bullet scar on John’s shoulder. “We’ve never spoken of it and nothing like that ever happened again. I swear it.”

“I believe you,” said John. He rolled over onto his stomach and put his arm around Sherlock’s waist. “But I have to know if you would…”

“No, not anymore.”  Sherlock’s gaze was full of tenderness. “I love you, but I think that Mycroft still has feelings, nothing will ever come of it though.”

“I guess that if anything was going to happen it would have happened a long time ago.”  John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. “It takes a bit of getting used to, but I’m glad that you told me. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sherlock with a chuckle.

John’s fingers glided over Sherlock’s abdomen until they nestled in the tangle of his pubic hair. “Did Mycroft ever know about all the pissing stuff?”

“I certainly never told him, but he’s Mycroft isn’t he…”

“So he’s probably worked out what it is that we do together?”

“Does that bother you?” asked Sherlock.

John snorted. “A bloke who’s got the hots for his brother is hardly in a position to pass moral judgement on anyone else, is he? Okay, so I might feel a bit awkward next time I see him, but the bottom line is that it’s none of his fucking business what we do.”

“So you don’t mind him knowing that you’ve got a piss fetish?”

John grinned. “You’ve got a piss fetish, I’m just along for the ride.”  He kissed Sherlock’s brow and cheeks. “No, that’s not quite true. It turns me on. It makes me wild for you, call it a kink, call it love, call it whatever the hell you like, but you’re mine.”  He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Now and always?”

“Now and always,” promised Sherlock.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John playing more desperation games and getting it together.  
> Okay, so this is the porny stuff with some emotion thrown in.

Everything was sensation, from the cool leather of the sofa under his splayed thigh to the slight roughness of the cushion’s weave on his cheek. The window was open at the bottom and the breeze made it just a shade too chilly. Sherlock folded the soft cotton drape of his dressing gown around himself. He would ask John to shut the window when he came back. It was raising little goosebumps on his forearms. He rubbed the sole of his right foot over the rug. His toes sank into warm wool and he stretched his legs out in front of him.

Sherlock tweaked his right nipple, turning it into a little hard nob of eager flesh. He gave the other equal attention and wondered idly if he could ever come from this simulation alone.  The idea of sex, of tea with milk in it and even breakfast all interested him. John would be home soon with his supermarket treasure trove.

There was another sensation and he aligned his breathing to the waves of need. His body reminded him that he had forgotten to empty his bladder.  It assumed that this was a mistake, an oversight on his part, and it sent a sudden sharper signal to jolt him into action.  Sherlock shifted on the sofa and abandoned his nipples in order to sooth his abdomen.  He stroked it lightly with absolutely no intention of giving into the pressure.  Rather he closed his eyes and shivered in appreciation of the fullness and the urgency. 

“I want to piss,” he whispered more for the pleasure of hearing the words than because he truly couldn’t wait. His cock quivered hopefully. “Oh, John, I want to go.” 

He let the monologue run on in his head, telling an absent John exactly how it all felt until he heard the front door open. Footfalls on the stairs and then a tiny heartbeat pause for breath. Was the bag too heavy or was John’s leg playing him up again?  Sherlock heard the muted creak of a carpet muffled floorboard and he sat up a little straighter. 

John opened the door and they smiled at one another across the sunlit room. “Well, you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed then,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“I’m dying for a piss.”  Sherlock managed to put just the right amount of whinge and whine into his voice.

“You can’t be that bad, it’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

“I know, but I haven’t been since last night.”

“Oh, fuck,” whispered John. His eyes were as wide as saucers.

Sherlock grinned. It was the perfect Pavlov’s dogs response. He arched his back with a come-hither look in his eyes and cupped his hand over his groin. “I need to go, John.”

“If you were that desperate you wouldn’t be going all sultry and sexy on me.”  John cleared his throat. “Have you honestly not been since yesterday?”

“I haven’t.” Sherlock could see how much that idea was turning John on and he wasn’t lying. Five minutes to midnight was still yesterday, wasn’t it?  “I wouldn’t let myself piss when I woke up this morning.”

“Fuck, okay.” John indicated the carrier bag at his feet. “I bought cereal and bread, if you want toast for breakfast.”

“Just tea.”  It would go through him at lightening speed on an empty stomach. “And maybe some toast.”

John was all fingers and thumbs. He dropped a mug and burnt the toast, luckily Sherlock liked it like that.  He also liked the way John kept shifting around on the sofa, half-hard in his jeans and almost more fidgety than he was.   Sherlock curled his arm around John’s neck and kissed him. The next few minutes were filled with soft sighs, slurps and murmurs.  John rested his head on Sherlock’s collarbone. “How much longer can you hold it for?”

Sherlock considered the question. He could go now, just by relaxing his muscles and letting it run out onto the floor. “I might make lunchtime, noon, if I push myself to the absolute limit.”

“Aim for twelve then.” John breathed the words into his mouth and followed them up with more intense kisses.

Sherlock took John’s hand and pressed it into his lap. “Wank me.”  He didn’t need to tell John not to bring him off. John knew the rules of the game.

“Lie down and I might go one better.” John ran the tip of his tongue over his lips.

Stretching out on the sofa took some of the pressure off  Sherlock’s bladder and John’s mouth on his cock certainly helped to divert his attention. He carded his hand through John’s hair and tried to focus solely on the sucking sensation, not on the urge that lay beneath the pleasure. That too was a fractured, perverse pleasure. It spiked in the pit of his stomach, trying to force its way past his desire and the inhibition of John’s mouth.

“I need to go.”  Sherlock closed his eyes and clasped John’s head to his groin. He felt the chuckle that rippled through John and for an instant he thought that he was going to lose it there and then. “I want to wet myself.”

It was a phrase that always twisted the knife of lust in John’s gut. He raised his head and his lips were wet. “No,” he said simply.  Then he slid his lips down over Sherlock’s cock and brought him to the edge of orgasm before he relented.  John sat up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “You can’t go yet,” he said as if there had been no break in their conversation.

“I want to piss,” said Sherlock sulkily. He licked the soft skin on John’s shoulder. “Please let me go.”

“Wouldn’t you be sorry if I did?” John was flushed and winded. “Fuck, what you do to me…” He plundered Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and pressed his temple into his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who’s desperate. I could come just watching you squirm.”

“Prove it.” Sherlock cupped his hand over the bulge in John’s jeans. “Get yourself off for me.”

John froze for a second before he stood up to strip off his clothes. His erection bobbed eagerly between his legs, tilting up against his stomach when he settled back on the sofa and took himself in hand.

“It’s fine,” whispered Sherlock. This would only be the second time that John had wanked so openly in front of him. “You’d better hurry though because I really need to piss.”  He jiggled his knees, griping his cock and pressing his thighs together. “God, John, you wouldn’t believe how badly it wants to come out.”

“I don’t believe it. You’re putting it on.” John ground the words out. His hand moved rapidly on his cock.

“I’m not. I haven’t been since yesterday.” Though silted eyes Sherlock saw John’s hand gather speed. “It’s not a trick. I’m desperate.”  Sherlock bit his lip and licked away a metallic speck of blood.  A tremor in his bladder made him gasp. “So desperate, Oh, god…”

There was a sheen of sweat on John’s chest. “What do you want…”

“I want to wet myself. I want to piss. Now. On the floor.”  Sherlock ached for relief and he knew that his body was trying to coerce him into letting go.  Defiance flared in him. It could damn well wait. “I won’t…”

“Can’t…not allowed…Oh god, fuck, I’m coming!” John’s cry of ecstasy split the air.

Sherlock scrutinised every jolting spasm with lustful, envious eyes. His cock jerked frantically and he didn’t know which he wanted more, to come in great shuddering pulses or to piss and piss until his aching bladder was empty.  His moan reverberated with John’s.

John slumped back with a Cheshire cat grin on his face. “God, that was good.” He crawled down the sofa to kiss Sherlock. John closed his hand possessively around Sherlock’s erection. He rubbed his finger over the sensitive head and his grin broadened when Sherlock wriggled and moaned.  “Shush, later, when you’ve had a piss…”

Sherlock jerked his head away from John’s, riding out a strong spasm in his bladder. “Oh god, I need to go.”

“Soon, soon, I promise.” John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him again. “Hush, it’s okay.”

 Sherlock clutched John’s shoulder, trying to lose himself in the heat of their embrace, but the weigh in his abdomen would not be ignored for long.  He groaned. It was impossible to think of anything other than the overwhelming urge to piss. “It’s trying to make me go…”  It. His body, His bladder, His brain. Until all that stood between him and a flood was his determination not to cave in to nature’s demands. “I won’t do it, John.”

“I know you won’t.”  John smiled at him. “I know you can hold it.”

“Then you know a damn sight more than I do.”  Sherlock’s mouth quirked up.  “It’s so difficult, but god, oh John…I love this…so hard, so full, so desperate….”

“You’re so flushed,” whispered John, “eyes like pin-pricks and this…” He curved his hand over the base of Sherlock’s stomach. “I swear to god I can feel it in there, all stretched tight.”  John looked down. “I can see it to.”

“It’s been so long, so many hours.”  Sherlock jiggled about crazily with his hand clamped around his cock. “I want to do it. I want to wet the sofa.”  He could imagine it coming out all over the cushions in a huge gush of relief.

“No,” said John. “You know that you’re not allowed to piss in here.”

“I have to go-”

“I said no. If you really can’t wait any longer you’ll have to go to the toilet.”

Sherlock would have laughed if he had dared to do so. “There’s no way, not this time. I’ll never make it to the loo.”

John clasped Sherlock’s thigh and stroked his thumb over the dark swirl of hairs at the top of his leg. “Just try.”

Sherlock blinked the sweat out his eyes. “I can’t. I’ll do it the moment I stand up.”

“No, you won’t.  We’ll take it nice and slow, and you’ll be just fine. All you have to do is keep calm and focus on staying dry until you get to the loo.”  This was John’s doctors voice, the one that could reassure a man with leg half off that he’d be going dancing next week, and it was overlaid with a sensuality Sherlock sincerely hoped he never used on his patients.

“And they say that I’m manipulative.” Sherlock clutched the edge of the sofa. “Okay, let’s try, but you’re cleaning up after me if I don’t make it.”

“All right, but no giving in just so you can see me in a piny and rubber gloves.”

“Shut up. If you make me laugh I’ll piss myself before I even attempt to move.” Sherlock grinned at John. He knew that this was insane. That he’d be lucky if he got as far as the kitchen door, but it wasn’t the first crazy thing he had ever done and he very much doubted that it would be the last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued. I just couldn't shoehorn all this into one chapter.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, if you've read this far you know what to expect, but just to warn you this chapter is pure (or very impure!) piss porn and it ends on a cliffhanger...

Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s forearm. His thigh muscles ached with tension and his right hand was clamped between his legs. He shuffled to the edge of the sofa. “I can’t. I’ll go when I stand up.”

“You won’t.” John dropped a kiss onto the crown of his head. “I know it feels as if you’re coming apart, but you can hold it.”

“Oh god…” Sherlock didn’t know how he had held out for so long against the desperate need to piss. His body was screaming for him to let go, but he clung stubbornly on to his control.  His bloodied lips curved into a parody of a smile. If he could reach the toilet then it would be the ultimate triumph of will-power over biology and Sherlock always played to win.

He braced himself for the movement, stood up and instantly doubled-over with his legs bent and crossed. “Oh fuck, fuck…”  The heaviness inside him had shifted to press even more intently against his body’s outlet. For a few seconds he was sure that he was about to piss himself. When that didn’t happen the desire to just give in and let it flow became almost over-powering.

“Keep it closed, Sherlock.”  John’s hand was strong and warm on his shoulder. “Just keep that sphincter closed.”

“Can’t…” He danced frantically on the spot and then somehow he could, at least for a brief time. “It won’t stay in much longer.”

John brushed the back of his hand over Sherlock’s cheek. “Well, you’re upright, almost upright anyway. Do you want to try walking?”

“No,” said Sherlock, but he did, although it was more of a shuffle and a hop.  This was definitely not dignified, although John’s arm around his waist and that continual murmur of encouragement and reassurance helped.  He kept his dressing gown bundled up into his groin as if the folds of blue cloth would impede the outpouring that threatened to break forth with every ragged beat of his heart.  “Oh please…”

“Hush, it’s okay.”

“I can’t, John.”  The inexorable compulsion to piss clawed at him. Go, just go, and the message was reinforced by a violent tremor in his bladder.  Sherlock gasped in pain and when he looked down at himself the pale cloth had been darkened by a coin sized wet spot. “Oh god, I’m leaking.”

“It’s all right.” John rubbed his bowed back. “Just take it easy, don’t get in a panic.”

“I-never-panic.” Sherlock staggered another couple of steps.  He pressed his forehead into the smooth wooden doorframe.  Both his hands were clenched around his cock, holding it securely though his dressing gown.  Another contraction cut through him and he very nearly gave in to it.   Sherlock whimpered. “It won’t stay in.”  Despite his resistance the wet patch on his dressing gown had grown wider and soggier.  He thumped his head on the doorframe “I don’t want to go here.”

“Don’t then.” John’s words caught in his throat. “Turn around and let me look at you.”

Sherlock moaned and turned in a half circle against the wall.

John’s moan echoed his. “Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful, all debauched and desperate…”  He kissed Sherlock’s parted lips. “Shush, just hold on for me, lover.”

Sherlock sobbed out a laugh. “I’m going, you idiot.” He felt a third spurt of piss soak into his dressing gown. “I’m doing it.”

“Don’t, please don’t.”  John wasn’t commanding or cajoling. He was begging.

Sherlock stared at him. John was almost scarlet with arousal and his breathing was heavier than his own.  “God, you’re in a worse state than I am.” 

“Want you. Love you.”  John kissed him, frantic and intense.  He clamped his hand over Sherlock’s own, compressing his wet groin. “Two fingers underneath, there like that, it’ll help.  God, fuck…” John stepped back so that he was looking into Sherlock’s eyes. “Try to make it into the bedroom?”

Sherlock’s snigger turned into a groan. He tensed his weary muscles and managed to hold out against another tremendous surge. “I can’t…another two or three minutes and I’ll piss everywhere.”

“That doesn’t matter. I don't care about the bed or the carpet,” said John.  “Please, just let me fuck you.”

Sherlock almost told him to do it there and then. His body was ripping its self apart. The distance to the bedroom would almost certainly defeat him and even if it didn’t he simply couldn’t withstand the craving to go any longer.  He had to piss. He just had to. “I’m going to…”  And there was John. John with that look in his eyes, the one he had contrived to put there. “Oh god, I’ve created a monster.” 

Sherlock was going to try, for John, and because he was a stupid, stubborn git. They looked at one another, every emotion and desire was conveyed in a single adoring glance.  

John touched his cheek. “Thank you.”

“No promises.” Sherlock grimaced and took a cautious step away from the wall.  He managed another half a dozen steps before he doubled over with his legs twisted together. “I want to piss!”

“Soon, lover.”  John took a step backwards with his hand held out and his hand trembled.  “Come on, Sherlock, come to me.”  He moved away when Sherlock hobbled towards him.

“Fuck off and die,” said Sherlock, but he followed his will-of-the-wisp tormentor down the hallway.  

“I’ll fuck you off in a minute.” 

“If you’re lucky.”  Sherlock was convinced that he wasn’t going to get to the bedroom without losing control completely. “God, I don’t think that it’s ever been this bad before.”  His stomach clenched, trying to push out all that weigh of piss.  Sherlock whimpered.  He had never tried so desperately to hold back the flood once he had actually started wetting himself.  “I need to piss. For god’s sake, John, I need to go.”

“Soon,” John repeated as if it were a favour for him to grant or deny.

“Fucking bastard.” Sherlock moved again, using every shred of will-power he processed to deny the overwhelming urge to surrender to the inevitable.  John had flung the bedroom door open.  Waves and waterfalls. Toilets and urinals.  Why didn’t he just piss on the hall carpet? It would feel so wonderful and he’d waited long enough. John could still fuck him afterwards.  “Fuck, god…” He reached the doorway, but another intense contraction produced a burst of piss that ran through the wodge of wet cloth at his groin and down the front of his dressing gown in a slender rivulet.

“Stop it, please, stop it.” John was begging again. He rubbed his erection through his trousers and tore his belt open. “Two minutes, I swear.”

“It won’t bloody stop!”  Sherlock writhed frantically, infuriated by his body’s refusal to obey his commands.  “Stupid, bastard thing…Oh god, it won’t stop.”  A second rivulet trickled down his dressing gown onto his foot. “I’m wetting myself.”

“Please, please, hold it.” John kicked his trousers off to reveal an erection that made Sherlock’s mouth water.

He bloodied his lip again trying to keep control and the trickle ebbed to a slow, stubborn drip. “I’m not going to last. A minute maybe…hurry, John.”

To be fair if there had been a world speed record for putting lubricant on a cock John would have broken it. They were both in a frenzy of lust and need. Twin litanies filled the air; John was begging him not to piss and he was crying out in desperation.  

John still wore his shirt and socks, which was appealing in a silly, erotic kind of way. If Sherlock had been the sentimental type he would have said that he looked cute. This was so – what? Painful because his bladder felt as it was about to explode and humiliating because he couldn’t keep silence or still.  And so very arousing because John was out of his head with lust, whilst his every nerve ending was hypersensitive,  over-simulated and stretched to breaking point. 

Sherlock danced about, bending and twisting as he struggled to hold on, sobbing and cursing the relentless compulsion to piss. “I have to go!  His dressing gown had slipped off his shoulders and he had most of it held in a bundle around his half-erect cock. He forced his tired fingers to press it even harder into his groin. “Oh god, no…wait, wait.”  A powerful spurt escaped. It ran down his leg, leaving a wide, wet band on his dressing gown and forming a palm-sized puddle on the floor. “Oh, Christ, it’s so hot.”

“Tell me about it,” said John. His cock glistened and he threw the tube of lubricant aside.

Sherlock swallowed the laugh that would have destroyed him. “My piss is hot.”

“Yeah, I know.” There was a wicked twinkle in John’s eyes.  He padded across the room with his hand outstretched. “Let me feel it, lover.”

Sherlock shook his head vigorously.  “I’ll do the lot if I let go of myself.”  Logic said that it was the internal muscle control that mattered, but he didn’t dare relax the external pressure. He had already lost more piss than he wanted to, yet not nearly as much as his bladder was trying so mercilessly to expel. “Oh fuck. Stop. Wait.”  The cloth between his legs was soaked. “Oh god, I want to…”

“You can,” promised John. He smoothed Sherlock’s hair back off his face and brushed his lips over his. “It’s a just a few steps over to the bed. That’s it, you’re doing fine. Almost there.”

Sherlock groaned when his failing sphincter released another burst of piss.  Then his bent knees bumped into the edge of the mattress and he crawled onto the bed with John’s help.  It dipped under him and the movement sent a violent tremor through his bladder. There was a huge wet patch on his dressing gown and piss dripped slowly through his fingers. “John, please, I can’t help it. I’m going every few seconds.”

“It’s okay, just kneel up for me, lover. That’s a boy.” John kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock let his head drop back onto John’s shoulder. His pelvis thrust forward and he moaned loudly.  “Oh fuck, I need to piss!  Please let me piss.”  The steady drip turned into a thin stream. Sherlock cried out despairingly and tensed all his muscles in one last effort to stem the flow. “I won’t go. I won’t go.”  The stream faltered, but he moaned again. “Oh god, I can’t keep stopping it. My bladder’s bursting. I’ve got to do all of it. I’ve just got to!”

“Thirty seconds,” pleaded John.  “Just hold on while I get this off you.”  He tugged the sodden dressing gown down until it clung to Sherlock’s thighs in wet, acrid folds. “Shush, that’s it.”

“Please, I’ve got to piss…oh god, please…” A trickle ran down his thighs and though his dressing gown to darken the duvet. “John, please!”

“Hush.” John’s erection brushed his bare buttocks. He clasped Sherlock’s hip with his right hand and cradled his left protectively over his rock-hard bladder.  “Ready?”

“What do you fucking think?”  demanded Sherlock.  He jerked back into John. “For Christ’s sake get on with it!”

John’s chuckle was a wounded, breathless gasp. Sherlock felt the heat that radiated of him. He closed his eyes. The air was ripe with the scent of sweat, sex and piss.  For a second he seemed to dislocate from himself, from his body’s all-consuming need to a place where there was only himself and John wrapped in velvet darkness.  I love you.  He didn’t need to speak the words aloud.  They resonated through their connection of skin and spirit.

“I love you too,” murmured John. He traced the curve of Sherlock’s collarbone with his tongue and pushed his hips forward.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

Sherlock lost control the instant the head of John’s erection breached his anus.   The piss rushed into his cock and he hissed in pain. For a moment it felt as if it was all trying to force its way through his urethra at once and then the relief hit.

“Oh fuck, yes…John!” The burning flood cascaded through his fingers. Sherlock let go of himself and fell forward onto his hands and knees.  John moved with him adding another fusion of delight to the sheer bliss of letting his piss stream forth unchecked.  “Oh, ah…Oh, thank god, I’m going!”

He was pissing with a vengeance; a high-pressure torrent that sprayed back up from the drenched duvet to splatter his chest and stomach.  Long tremors went through him, making his arms and legs quiver with the effort of supporting himself.  It was deeply sexual, akin to orgasm and yet unique in its self, which made all he had endured to reach this nirvana worthwhile.

John moaned in his ear. A fraught, shattered sound.  He had held himself still, shaking with frustration, to let Sherlock savour the joy of relief. Now he pulled out, almost to the tip of his thick cock and slammed back in. “Fuck…I can feel…” John’s hips spasmed forward.

The impact deep inside him made Sherlock writhe. It was almost too much pleasure to bear, a wild conflict of ecstatic sensations that made him moan and shake.  John’s cock touched his prostate with every frantic thrust and piss gushed out of his twitching cock in an endless stream.   His dressing gown hung in limp, saturated folds and the bed was ruined.  Sherlock didn’t give a damn. This was the most wonderful experience of his life.

John seemed to be enjoying it as well if his frenzied groans were anything to judge by. His fingers clawed at Sherlock’s hips and his thrusts became shorter, quicker and more uncoordinated.  “Too soon…” he gasped in a frenzy of fucking.

Sherlock jerked his pelvis back and up.  His cock released another burst of piss before it slowed to a soft trickle that ran wetly down his thighs.  John hammered into him, filling that empty, deflated space in his abdomen and swelling his aching cock to full erection.  

“More.” Sherlock dropped his head forward. He could see the corded veins that stood out on his arms and on his rigid cock.  “Harder…”

John complied.  He froze on one last desperate downward thrust and threw his head back as the sounds of his orgasm reverberated off the walls.

Sherlock’s limbs gave out under the strain and they collapsed onto the bed.  He was trapped under John’s weight. His chest heaved against Sherlock’s back and he gasped into his shoulder.

“Fucking Christ,” whispered John brokenly.

Sherlock reached back and grasped his right hip. “Don’t pull out.”

“Oh, hell…”

“It’ll make me come.”

“A gust of wind would make you come at this point.”  John burrowed in even deeper, trying to ensure that his softening cock stayed in place. “I don’t know if I can…”

“Try, Please, try.”  Sherlock rubbed himself on the wet duvet. The friction of it tugged at his exposed cockhead and sent a long ripple of fire into his belly and balls.

“Okay, just don’t wriggle about so much.”

The fear of dislodging John made Sherlock force himself to lie still although every instinct was screaming at him to move, to cant his hips and thrust. “Please piss.”

“I’ll try.” John put his hand over Sherlock’s on the pillow.  Poor John really did try to go. He pressed down, straining all his muscles, but it just wasn’t happening.  “Bugger…” They both giggled. “This isn’t as easy as they make it look in the porno movies.”

“Just relax.” Sherlock kneaded John’s thigh muscles. “I want you to do it and you know that you need to piss.”  He stroked the top of John’s leg. “Come on, piss inside me.”

John grunted and bore down again. “It won’t…”  

Sherlock felt a very faint warm trickle dampen his insides. His cock juddered in appreciation. “That’s it, more, John, more.”

“It won’t come out.”  John tried again and managed to push out another wet trickle. “I can’t bloody go like this.”

John was already frustrated and irritated, though not nearly as frustrated as Sherlock was. He thrust into the bed and choked back the string of swear words. He was almost there, right on the threshold of an intense orgasm, and he was damned if he was going to try and hold back because John couldn’t piss in his arse.

Only if John failed now he would never persuade him to attempt this again. Sherlock tilted his hips up as much as he could with John’s weight on his back. “You’ve got to. I can’t come unless you do and I’m dying for it.” His moan wasn’t feigned. “Please, John, please just piss…”

“Fuck…” John shifted position slightly. His fingers dug into Sherlock’s upper arm. He groaned and bit down on Sherlock’s shoulder.  It wasn’t much, just a frail trickle of wetness that tingled enough to make Sherlock’s cock spasm hopefully.  Then the stream grew a little more powerful and he felt the hiss of its impact on his sensitive inner passage.

“Please…” They were pressed too tightly together  for Sherlock to be able to hump the bed or to wriggle a hand under himself to yank his orgasm out.  This had to be enough. It had to be. John was pissing inside him and if he couldn’t get off on that –

“Oh, god, yes!”  An intense wave of excitement griped him and another even more ardent spasm made him gasp. A spider web of arousal radiated out into his stomach and thighs before it snapped violently back to coalesce in an orgasmic upsurge.  “Oh, fuck, yes, yes!”

It shook him apart in a series of whole-body convulsions. Sherlock cried out and he heard John’s laugh, ragged and triumphant, through a rapturous haze.  His ecstasy racked body was the focus of his universe and everything else felt distant and unreal. Only John’s body wrapped around his grounded him to the earth. Only John. Forever John.

When the world righted its self again Sherlock felt John pull out of his arse and a gentle patter of piss into the small of his back.

“Sorry,” mumbled John, as if Sherlock would find it objectionable now that he had come. “I couldn’t stop it.” He flopped down against Sherlock’s back and threw his arm over his waist. “God, we’re a mess.”

Sherlock kept his face pressed into the pillow. It was far too much effort to raise his head. “Literally or emotionally?”

John’s shrug was a long ripple down Sherlock’s spine. “Both, I guess.”

“Do we care?”

“We couldn’t give a bugger.” That gave them both a fit of the giggles.

They lay quietly in a wet tangle for another five minutes or so until the reek of the room made Sherlock’s nose curl and he let John drag him up off his wet bed. They ripped the drenched duvet cover off and left the wide piss stain on the mattress to dry on its own. 

John threw everything that would fit into the washing machine. “We’ll have to stick the duvet in separately,” he said.

“Chuck it away and buy another one.”  Sherlock stood naked in the kitchen doorway. His piss soaked dressing gown was a blue blur in the machine.

John grinned. “This could get to be an expensive hobby.”  He held out his hand. “Let’s go and get cleaned up.”

They shared a multitude of soft kisses and tender caresses as they washed one another under the shower. Then they abandoned the debris of their love-making to crawl upstairs and collapse on John’s dry and comfortable bed. 

*

By mid-afternoon the sun had turned its golden face downwards and the room glistened in the heat.

“Are you okay?”  John sighed. He stretched lazily and snuggled into Sherlock’s shoulder.  “No aches or pains?”

“I’m fine.”  The last thing Sherlock wanted was for John to fret. Guilty consciences were such a bore and he was fine, replete and content in spite of the ache in his back and bladder. 

John splayed his fingers across Sherlock’s lower abdomen. “I don’t want you wrecking your kidneys.”

“Don’t worry, I know the prescription, drink plenty of water and go whenever I feel the urge to piss.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms securely around John.  He could feel the tension in his lover and he kissed John softly, but John drew back so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“Did I push you too far?” John asked anxiously. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “and I loved every second of it. Have you ever known me do anything that I didn’t want to do?  You saw how desperate I was, leaking piss everywhere, but I still fought it because it felt so incredible and when I finally went with you inside me…” A thin shiver passed through Sherlock and his soft cock twitched.  “It was bloody marvellous.”

“I could feel you pissing,” whispered John, “spilling it all out with your arse muscles clenching around my cock. It was no wonder that I came as soon as I did.”

Sherlock chuckled and then his expression grew tender.  He cradled John’s face in his hands. “I never dreamt that anyone would ever be so accepting, more than accepting, of my fetish.”  The kiss he bestowed on John was a benediction. “Or of me, I know that I’m not easy to live with or to love.”

“Sometimes you’re bloody impossible,” said John warmly. He kissed Sherlock’s palm. “Scratch that, you’re impossible all the time.”

“What about the piss?” Sherlock scanned John’s face. “You were normal, straight, vanilla before I got hold of you.”

“Was I? It doesn’t even seem real now.” John frowned. “If I take a step back and look at myself I end up wondering if I was ever that person at all.” He stroked Sherlock’s stomach. “I don’t want anything or anyone else, you’re everything to me.”

Sherlock knew that was decidedly more than he ever deserved, but he was rarely, humbly grateful for John’s devotion.  “I’d be lost without you,” he confessed.

John smiled sadly. “Is this my cue to say that you’ll never be without me?  How can I make a promise like that when I know how precarious life is?”

“I never asked for promises,” said  Sherlock quietly. He held John close and stroked a hand over his hair. “There are no certainties for us, but I love you and if…if you said that you wouldn’t ever leave me by choice then I’d be content with that.”

“All right then, I’ll never leave you, not by choice, not ever.”  John blinked rapidly and dashed his hand across his eyes. “Christ, you’ll have me blubbing like a kid in a minute.”

“That’s because you’re sentimental and irrational.” Sherlock’s lips quirked. “Most people are, you know.”

John ran his hand down Sherlock’s arm and interlaced their fingers. “But not you?” He raised Sherlock hand to his lips. “You’re all cold logic and deduction, aren’t you?”

“What else would I be?” Sherlock basked in the warmth of John’s affection.  He embraced him so that they lay with their limbs entwined and their hearts beating in unison. “I love you, John.”

John smiled. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“Good,” said Sherlock.

And it was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading.


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